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THE  MODERN 
STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 

EACH  VOLUME  EDITED  BY  A  LEADING 
AMERICAN  AUTHORITY 

This  series  is  composed  of  such  works  as 
are  conspicuous  in  the  province  of  literature 
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is  recognized  as  essential  to  a  liberal  edu- 
cation and  will  tend  to  infuse  a  love  for  true 
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ties which  cause  it  to  endure. 

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this  series  appears  in  the  last  pages 

of  this  volume 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


THE  MODERN  STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS 

By 
ROBERT  BROWNING 


THE   MODERN  STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS 


BY 

ROBERT  BROWNING 


SELECTED  AND  EDITED, 
WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  AND  NOTES 

BY 
HEWETTE    ELWELL    JOYCE 

ASSISTANT  PROFESSOR  OF  ENGLISH  IN  DARTMOUTH  COLLEGE 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  CHICAGO  HOSTON 


PR 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


PBINTEU  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OK  AMERICA 


TO 

WILLIAM  LYON  PHELPS 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

This  volume  has  been  planned  for  the  less  experienced 
reader  of  Browning;  the  more  advanced  reader  is  satisfied 
only  with  the  complete  edition.  The  Introduction,  there- 
fore, aims  merely  to  suggest  briefly  an  approach  to 
Browning,  to  point  out  such  difficulties  as  often  perplex  one 
who  reads  Browning  for  the  first  time,  and  to  state  simply  a 
few  of  the  poet's  fundamental  ideas.  Allusions  in  the  text 
are  annotated  only  where  ignorance  might  come  between  the 
reader  and  the  meaning  of  the  poem;  critical  and  interpreta- 
tive notes  have  been  omitted  altogether,  in  the  belief  that 
most  of  the  intellectual  stimulus  Browning  has  to  offer  is 
lost  if  the  reader's  thinking  is  done  for  him  in  advance.  As 
accounts  of  Browning's  life  are  easily  accessible,  it  has 
seemed  unnecessary  to  include  any  biographical  material, 
but  a  brief  reading  list  has  been  appended  to  the  introduction. 

H.  E,  J. 


CONTENTS 

The  large  capitals  are  the  titles  of  the  volumes  in  the  com- 
plete edition  of  Browning. 

POEMS 

PAGE 

SONGS  FROM  PARACELSUS 3 

DRAMATIC   LYRICS 

CAVALIER  TUNES 7 

THE  LOST  LEADER 9 

"HOW    THEY    BROUGHT    THE    GOOD    NEWS    FROM 

GHENT  TO  Aix" 10 

THE  FLOWER'S  NAME 12 

SOLILOQUY  OF  THE  SPANISH  CLOISTER    ....  13 

THE  LABORATORY 15 

THE  CONFESSIONAL 17 

CRISTINA 19 

THE  LOST  MISTRESS 21 

EARTH'S  IMMORTALITIES 22 

MEETING  AT  NIGHT 22 

PARTING  AT  MORNING .  23 

SONG:  "NAY  BUT  YOU,  WHO  DO  NOT  LOVE  HER"   .  23 

A  WOMAN'S  LAST  WORD 23 

EVELYN  HOPE 25 

LOVE  AMONG  THE  RuiNS 26 

UP  AT  A  VILLA — DOWN  IN  THE  CITY     ....  28 

A  TOCCATA  OF  GALUPPI'S 31 

"DE  GUSTIBUS—         34 

HOME-THOUGHTS,  FROM  ABROAD 35 

HOME-THOUGHTS,  FROM  THE  SEA 36 

SAUI 36 

MY  STAR 50 

ANY  WIFE  TO  ANY  HUSBAND 51 

TWO  IN  THE  COMPAGNA 54 

MISCONCEPTIONS 56 

ONE  WAY  OF  LOVE 57 

RESPECTABILITY 57 

LOVE  IN  A  LIFE  58 


x  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

LIFE  IN  A  LOVE 58 

BEFORE 59 

AFTER 60 

THE  GUARDIAN  ANGEL 61 

MEMORABILIA 63 

POPULARITY 63 

MASTER  HUGUES  OF  SAXE-GOTHA 65 

DRAMATIC   ROMANCES 

INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP 70 

THE  PATRIOT 71 

MY  LAST  DUCHESS 72 

COUNT  GISMOND 74 

THE  BOY  AND  THE  ANGEL 77 

INSTANS  TYRANNUS 80 

THE  GLOVE 82 

TIME'S  REVENGES 87 

THE  ITALIAN  IN  ENGLAND 89 

IN  A  GONDOLA 93 

THE  TWINS 100 

A  LIGHT  WOMAN 101 

THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER 103 

THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  HAMELIN      ....           .  106 

A  GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL 114 

THE  HERETIC'S  TRAGEDY 118 

THE  STATUE  AND  THE  BUST 122 

PORPHYRIA'S  LOVER 130 

"CHILDE  ROLAND  TO  THE  DARK  TOWER  CAME"   .  131 

MEN   AND   WOMEN 

AN  EPISTLE,  CONTAINING  THE  STRANGE  MEDICAL 
EXPERIENCE  OF  KARSHISH,  THE  ARAB  PHY- 
SICIAN   137 

JOHANNES  AGRICOLA  IN  MEDITATION  ....  145 

PICTOR  IGNOTUS 147 

FRA  LIPPO  LIPPI 149 

ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 159 

THE  BISHOP  ORDERS  HIS  TOMB  AT  SAINT  PRAXED'S 

CHURCH  166 


PAGE 

CLEON 169 

RUDEL  TO  THE  LADY  OP  TRIPOLI 178 

ONE  WORD  MORE        179 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

ABT  VOGLER,  AFTER  HE  HAS  BEEN  EXTEMPORIZING 
UPON  THE  MUSICAL  INSTRUMENT  OF  HIS  INVEN- 
TION .  186 

RABBI  BEN  EZRA 189 

A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT 195 

CALIBAN  UPON  SETEBOS;  OR,  NATURAL  THEOLOGY 

IN  THE  ISLAND 212 

CONFESSIONS 220 

MAY  AND  DEATH          221 

PROSPICE 222 

YOUTH  AND  ART 222 

A  FACE 225 

APPARENT  FAILURE 225 

Prologue  to  FIFINE  AT  THE  FAIR.     (AMPHIBIAN.)  227 

Epilogue  to  FIFINE  AT  THE  FAIR.     (THE  HOUSE-  230 

HOLDER.) 

PACCHIAROTTO,   WITH   OTHER   POEMS. 

HOUSE 231 

FEARS  AND  SCRUPLES 232 

APPEARANCES 234 

HERVE  RIEL 234 

Prologue  to  LA  SAISIAZ.     ("Good,  to  forgive.")  239 

Prologue  to  THE  TWO  POETS  OF  CROISIC.     ("Such 

a  starved  bank  of  moss.")  239 

DRAMATIC   IDYLS. 

PHEIDIPPIDES 240 

MULEYKEH 245 

JOCOSERIA. 

WANTING  is — WHAT? 249 

ADAM,  LILITH,  AND  EVE    .      .      .  250 


xii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

NEVER  THE  TIME  AND  THE  PLACE 251 

SONNET:    "EYES,    CALM    BESIDE    THEE    (LADY, 

COULDST  THOU  KNOW.)  "  251 

BEN  KARSHOOK'S  WISDOM 252 

WHY  I  AM  A  LIBERAL 252 

ASOLANDO:  FANCIES  AND  FACTS. 

PROLOGUE 253 

ROSNY 254 

POETICS 255 

SUMMUM  BONUM 256 

BAD  DREAMS 256 

DEVELOPMENT        256 

EPILOGUE 259 

PLAYS 

PIPPA  PASSES.  263 

A  BLOT  IN  THE    'SCUTCHEON.  309 

IN  A  BALCONY.  350 


INTRODUCTION 

In  his  first  published  work,  Pauline,  written  when  he  was 
only  twenty,  Browning  stated  his  theory  of  poetry  in 
the  lines 

And  then  thou  said'st  a  perfect  bard  was  one 
Who  chronicled  the  stages  of  all  life. 

To  this  theory  he  held  unwaveringly  throughout  his  lit- 
erary career  of  more  than  half  a  century,  and  can  therefore 
be  placed  among  the  English  poets  who  believed  that  the 
poet  should  be  first  of  all  an  interpreter  of  life.  And  it  is 
man's  inner  life,  the  life  of  his  soul,  how  man  thinks  and 
feels,  his  ideas  and  emotions,  the  reasons  for  his  actions 
rather  than  the  actions  themselves  that  interested  Browning. 
He  went  so  far  as  to  say  of  man's  soul:  "Nothing  else  is 
worth  study."  To  hold  the  mirror  up  to  human  nature  and 
to  show  the  relation  of  the  individual  soul  to  eternal  truth 
was  Browning's  chief  ami  and  all  but  constant  practice. 

Such  a  conception  of  the  highest  aim  of  poetry  seems  at 
first  thought  all  inclusive  and  gives  the  poet  an  ideal  utterly 
impossible  of  attainment.  Taken  literally,  it  is.  No  poet, 
even  a  Shakespeare,  can  hope  to  "chronicle  the  stages  of  all 
life."  But  it  is  characteristic  of  Browning  that  he  defined 
his  art,  even  in  his  youth,  in  terms  of  what  soon  became  one 
of  his  strongest  beliefs :  that  the  ideal  of  any  man,  no  matter 
what  his  particular  work  may  be,  must  be  unattainable,  so 
that  his  life,  be  it  short  or  long,  may  always  be  one  of  prog- 
ress. Interpreted  in  the  light  of  other  conceptions  of  poetic 
art,  Browning's  conception  seems  even  limited  in  its  scope. 
It  makes  no  mention  of  beauty,  of  rhythm,  of  any  appeal  to 
the  senses  or  to  the  imagination,  which  for  most  readers  are 
the  essentials  of  poetry.  It  resulted  in  Browning's  relegating 
to  a  place  of  secondary  importance  many  of  the  qualities 
for  which  we  ordinarily  call  poets  great.  As  he  said  himself, 
it  makes  strong  rather  than  sweet  verse.  Nevertheless,  the 
statement,  frequently  made,  that  Browning  was  incapable  of 
writing  musically  usually  comes  from  those  who  do  not 
really  know  him;  and  it  can  easily  be  disproved  by  many 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

passages  and  whole  poems;  but  taken  as  a  whole,  his  work  is 
an  attempt  to  interpret  man's  soul,  beautiful  or  ugly,  strong 
or  weak,  noble  or  base,  and  it  is  only  occasionally  that  he  puts 
primary  importance  upon  anything  else.  To  conclude  that 
his  best  work  is  careless  in  composition,  that  he  handled 
meter,  stanza  and  rhyme  indifferently,  is  to  speak  from 
only  partial  knowledge  of  his  work.  In  variety  of  meter  and 
stanza  form  few  poets  have  surpassed  him,  and  he  is  an 
acknowledged  master  of  rhyme.  But  his  technique  is  nearly 
always  subordinate  to  his  main  purpose:  to  find  the  meaning 
of  life  through  the  soul  of  man. 

From  Browning's  conception  of  poetry  and  his  constant 
attempt  to  approximate  his  ideal  arise  two  of  the  more  serious 
difficulties  which  confront  the  inexperienced  reader.  In  at- 
tempting to  live  up  to  his  theory  Browning  goes  to  every  nook 
and  corner  of  literature  and  history;  and  as  he  was  one  of 
the  most  widely  read  and  scholarly  of  the  English  poets,  the 
inexperienced  reader  often  finds  himself  lacking  in  the  back- 
ground necessary  to  the  enjoyment,  if  not  to  the  actual 
understanding,  of  the  poem  in  question.  Much  of  the  diffi- 
culty of  reading  Browning's  poems  comes  from  his  tacit 
assumption  that  the  reader  is  as  well  informed  about  out 
of  the  way  characters  as  he — and  very  few  are.  The  long 
poem  Sordello,  one  of  the  most  difficult  pieces  of  literature 
in  any  language,  long  a  byword  for  obscurity  even  to  the 
most  erudite,  owes  its  difficulty  largely  to  the  fact  that 
Browning  assumed  that  the  reader  could  bring  to  the  poem 
a  knowledge  sufficient  to  make  Sordello's  character  and  ideas 
comprehensible.  Unfortunately  not  one  reader  in  a  million 
has  such  a  background ;  it  might  almost  be  said  that  Browning 
alone  was  really  prepared  to  read  the  poem.  To  a  lesser  degree 
the  same  assumption  is  made  in  many  of  the  shorter  and 
less  difficult  poems.  Familiarity  with  little  known  as  well 
as  with  famous  characters  is  taken  for  granted;  a  knowledge 
of  art,  music,  philosophy  and  literature,  to  mention  but  a 
few  of  the  fields  into  which  he  goes,  led  by  his  desire  to  see 
the  soul  in  all  sorts  of  environments,  may  be  brought  with 
advantage  to  the  reading  of  his  greater  poems.  This  is  no 
reason,  however,  for  looking  upon  Browning  as  a  poet  for 
the  mature  scholar  alone.  Many  a  reader,  ambitious  to 
extend  his  own  cultural  and  intellectual  horizon,  has  found, 
as  one  by-product  of  his  reading,  that  the  poetry  of  Browning 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

is  an  incentive  to  further  study  in  many  and  varied  fields  of 
learning.  He  usually  avoided  subjects  of  merely  local  or 
contemporary  interest;  thoroughly  English,  he  writes  seldom 
of  England;  living  enthusiastically  and  fully  in  his  own  age, 
with  hosts  of  friends,  he  chooses  his  characters,  as  a  rule,  from 
the  past.  This  emphasis  on  the  fundamentals  in  human 
nature,  which  are  not  materially  affected  by  place  or  time, 
makes  possible  a  more  lasting  appeal  than  can  be  found  in 
poetry  limited  in  its  scope  by  here  and  now.  Further,  the 
very  fact  that  Browning  does  write  of  poets,  painters,  musi- 
cians, politicians,  theologians,  patriots — the  list,  if  extended, 
would  be  surprisingly  complete — offers  something  for  readers 
differing  widely  in  tastes  and  interests,  and  makes  this  poet  of 
the  so-called  "narrow"  Victorian  era  one  whose  appeal,  so  far 
as  his  subject  matter  is  concerned,  is  all  but  universal. 
Genuine  familiarity  with  Browning  can  result  in  a  great 
extension  of  general  information  for  the  ambitious  reader. 

The  second  difficulty  which  the  unwarned  reader  is  almost 
certain  to  find  in  Browning  comes  from  his  use  of  a  highly 
individual  and  rather  unusual  medium  for  portraying  human 
nature,  namely  the  so-called  dramatic  monologue,  a  form 
of  verse  not  actually  original  with  him,  but  so  frequently 
and  powerfully  used,  and  so  stamped  with  his  vigorous  per- 
sonality, that  it  seldom  suggests  any  other  poet.  Failure 
to  realize  that  Browning's  poems  are  monologues,  that  he 
wrote  almost  always  in  the  first  person  but  that  he  seldom 
speaks  in  his  own  person,  often  causes  much  difficulty  which 
might  have  been  avoided. 

The  dramatic  monologue  as  Browning  uses  it — the  term 
may  be  extended  to  include  practically  all  the  poems  in  this 
volume — is  a  lyric  or  narrative  poem  in  which  a  single 
speaker  reveals  characteristic  traits  as  they  are  brought  out 
in  a  situation  perhaps  highly  critical,  perhaps  deeply  signi- 
ficant, perhaps  even  casual.  Frequently  the  speaker  is  the 
chief  actor;  sometimes  he  is  merely  an  onlooker.  In  some 
of  the  dramatic  monologues  the  speaker  merely  soliloquizes; 
but  more  commonly  Browning  suggests,  even  in  a  short 
poem,  one  or  more  characters — in  addition  to  the  speaker— 
who  are  necessary  for  the  situation  and  set  in  a  background 
as  vivid  to  the  imaginative  reader  as  a  picture  or  a  stage 
setting.  Take,  for  example,  one  of  Browning's  best  dramatic 
monologues,  My  Last  Duchess.  That  it  is  a  monologue  is 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

obvious  at  once — "There's  my  last  duchess — ."  But  if  the 
reader  is  not  familiar  with  Browning's  method,  he  is  apt  to 
proceed  without  taking  the  hints,  some  of  them  rather  subtle, 
by  which  the  poet  suggests  the  characters  of  the  duke  and 
his  last  duchess,  her  tragic  marriage,  and  the  rich  but  heart- 
less setting  of  Renaissance  Italy.  By  means  of  his  under- 
standing of  human  nature  and  his  sympathetic  imagination 
Browning  has  thought  and  felt  himself  into  the  mind  and 
soul  of  the  Duke  of  Ferraraand  haslet  him  speak  for  himself. 

And  so  it  is  with  most  of  the  poems  in  this  book;  the  poet 
becomes  for  the  time  being  Fra  Lippo  Lippi  or  Pheidippides, 
Caliban  or  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  Johannes  Agricola  or  Cleon, 
and  lets  each  speak  for  himself  and  reveal  his  soul,  and 
often,  in  addition,  a  philosophy  of  life  or  the  spirit  of  an 
age.  Some  of  the  poems,  like  Abt  Vogler  or  A  Death  in  the 
Desert,  are  meditative  and  quiet;  others,  like  The  Laboratory 
or  The  Confessional,  are  filled  with  activity  and  excitement. 
So  varied  are  the  characters  and  situations  that  it  is  impos- 
sible to  generalize  satisfactorily  about  them;  but  there  are 
few  poems  which  do  not  exemplify  Browning's  poetic  creed 
and  few  that  are  not  dramatic  monologues. 

It  might  seem  as  if  poems  of  the  sort  just  mentioned,  sim- 
ply because  they  are  dramatic,  would  give  the  poet  little 
opportunity  for  expressing  his  own  ideas  and  emotions. 
And  yet  Browning's  poetry  is  charged  with  his  deepest 
feelings  and  thoughts;  and  his  fundamental  beliefs  about  the 
great  issues  of  life  can  be  brought  together  and  formulated 
into  a  definite  creed  rather  more  easily  and  completely  than 
those  of  most  of  the  other  English  poets.  Even  in  a  poem. 
in  which  the  prevailing  mood  or  the  ideas  are  quite  at 
variance  with  Browning's  own,  we  are  always  conscious  of 
his  personality.  Occasionally  he  lays  aside  the  mask  and 
speaks  in  his  own  person,  as  at  the  end  of  The  Statue  and 
the  Bust,  and  notably  in  One  Word  More,  but  as  a  rule  he 
is  true  to  his  belief  that  the  poet  should  be  a  mouthpiece  for 
human  nature  rather  than  for  his  own  ideas  and  experiences. 
It  is  chiefly  through  his  characters  that  we  learn  the  poet's 
own  beliefs. 

The  intelligent  reader  seldom  cares  to  have  a  poet's  ideas 
explained  and  analysed  in  detail  for  him  in  advance;  but  in 
the  case  of  Browning,  whose  material  is  varied  and  frequently 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

unfamiliar,  whose  poetic  medium  and  style  are  unusual,  and 
whose  poems,  consequently,  seem  difficult  at  first,  a 
statement  merely  in  broad  outline  of  the  foundations  of  his 
philosophy  may  at  once  help  to  stimulate  interest  and  supply 
some  background  against  which  to  place  individual  poems. 

Browning's  observations  of  human  nature  were  based 
upon  extensive  reading  and  upon  many  actual  human  con- 
tacts, for  he  was  both  scholarly  and  social  in  his  tastes. 
His  long  experience  convinced  him  that  certain  beliefs  about 
God  and  man  were  incontrovertibly  true.  As  a  result  we 
find  in  his  complete  works  essentially  one  philosophy  of  life, 
satisfying  him  from  first  to  last,  with  far  less  change  from 
youth  to  maturity  to  old  age  than  is  found  in  most  other 
poets.  Under  this  philosophy  lie  a  few  comparatively  simple 
truths — as  he  saw  them — which  may  be  briefly  set  forth. 

The  first  of  these  is  the  direct  result  of  Browning's  con- 
ception of  work  and  its  relationship  to  life  here  and  here- 
after, and  is  a  paradox:  that  success  in  this  world  consists 
not  of  outward  and  visible  attainment,  of  that  which  the 
"low  world  can  value  in  a  trice,"  as  he  makes  Rabbi  Ben 
Ezra  say,  but  rather  of  spiritual  development  through  con- 
stant effort  to  reach  an  unattainable  ideal,  of  aspiration 
rather  than  of  actual  realization,  of  what  man  strives  to  be 
rather  than  of  what  he  is.  Success,  as  the  world  commonly 
conceives  it,  may  mean  to  Browning  only  dismal  failure,  the 
result  of  low  ideals  easily  reached;  failure  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world,  on  the  other  hand,  may  mean  spiritual  success,  and 
may  be  an  earnest  of  ultimate  attainment  in  a  future  life. 
Perhaps  the  most  striking  illustration  of  this  idea  is  in  Andrea 
del  Sarto.  Andrea's  title,  the  "faultless  painter,"  suggests 
professional  and  artistic  success;  to  Browning  it  is  an  indi- 
cation of  pathetic  failure.  With  flawless  technique,  but  with- 
out real  inspiration,  Andrea  could  go  no  further: 

All  is  silver-gray 
Placid  and  perfect  with  my  art;  the  worse. 

And  his  sense  of  failure  is  deepened  by  his  realization  that 
there  are  innumerable  artists  who  "have  the  truer  light  of 
God  in  them"  but  who  lack  skill,  of  which  he  has  full  mea- 
sure, to  make  their  inspirations  live  on  canvass.  "A  man's 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

reach  must  exceed  his  grasp"  says  Andrea,  and  the  worst 
failure  is  an  easy  success. 

Along  with  such  a  conception  goes  a  firm  belief  in  the 
immortality  of  the  soul,  a  belief  which  never  gave  way  even 
under  the  attacks  made  upon  it  during  the  greater  part  of 
Browning's  mature  life.  His  conception  of  the  future  life 
was  not,  however,  the  conventional  one.  Believing  firmly 
in  the  potentialities  of  man's  soul,  and  that  genuine  aspi- 
ration cannot,  by  its  very  nature,  be  realized  here,  he  felt 
that  there  must  be  a  life  after  death,  to  give  opportunity 
for  realizing  earthly  ideals,  and  even  for  still  further 
development.  "Man  has  forever"  chant  those  who  carry 
the  scholar,  in  A  Grammarian's  Funeral,  to  his  grave  on 
the  mountain-top;  and  in  Abt  Vogler  belief  in  ultimate 
attainment  and  in  the  fulfilment  of  human  aspiration,  is 
expressed  in  the  lines 

There  shall  never  be  one  lost  good.     What  was,  shall 

live  as  before; 

The  evil  is  null,  is  naught,  is  silence  implying  sound; 
What  was  good  shall  be  good,  with,  for  evil,  so  much 

good  more; 

On  the  earth  the  broken  arcs;  in  the  heaven  the 
perfect  round. 

Our  failure  here  is  but  a  triumph's  evidence  for  the  fullness 
of  the  days,  to  adapt  a  statement  from  the  same  poem. 
Suffering  and  hardship,  as  is  pointed  out  in  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra, 
are  not  arbitrarily  inflicted  upon  men  but  are  offered  as 
means  by  which  they  may  grow  spiritually  and  become  fit 
for  another  life.  "The  best  is  yet  to  be." 

Such  a  philosophy  of  development  here  and  attainment 
hereafter  presupposes  a  master  mind,  planning  and  working 
for  man's  ultimate  welfare.  Browning's  conception  of  God 
can  hardly  be  treated  briefly;  suffice  it  to  say  that  he  shows, 
through  his  various  characters,  the  growth  of  man's  concep- 
tion of  the  Deity,  from  the  anthropomorphic  Setcbos  of 
Caliban  to  the  purely  spiritual  God,  revealed  in  Christ,  in  A 
Death  in  the  Desert.  From  the  reading  of  his  poetry  as  a 
whole  one  can  readily  feel  his  personal  faith  in  God,  and  in 
Christ  as  the  highest  symbol  of  divine  love  the  world  has  yet 
seen.  Love,  the  summum  bonum  to  Browning,  is  virtually 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

a  synonym  for  God.  "He  at  least  believed  in  Soul,  was 
very  sure  of  God"  he  wrote  of  himself  in  1877,  echoing  what 
he  had  written  in  Paracelsus  over  forty  years  earlier. 

Though  his  faith  was  emotional  rather  than  intellectual, 
he  never  feared  to  submit  it  to  the  test.  In  La  Saisiaz,  a 
long  poem  of  a  decidedly  personal  nature,  written  late  in 
life,  he  gives  his  reasons  for  the  faith  that  is  in  him.  God 
and  the  Soul,  he  says,  are  the  only  facts  for  him. 

Prove  them  facts?  that  they  o'erpass  my  power  of 

proving,  proves  them  such: 
Fact  it  is  I  know  I  know  not  something  which  is  fact 

as  much. 

In  the  face  of  rationalism  he  turned  for  proof  to  the  voice 
within  him  rather  than  to  his  mind;  by  no  means  hostile  to 
the  rapidly  advancing  scientific  thought  of  his  day,  though 
his  poetry  has  comparatively  little  to  say  of  it,  he  was  never 
engulfed  by  it.  In  an  age  of  doubt  he  dared  to  call  his 
soul  his  own. 

Belief  in  man's  development  through  conflict  and  failure, 
unshakable  faith  in  God  and  immortality,  resulted  inevitably 
in  a  thorough-going  optimism,  the  keynote  of  Browning's 
poetry.  Surely  he  lets  Fra  Lippo  Lippi  speak  for  him 
when  he  says 

This  world's  no  blot  for  us, 
Nor  blank;  it  means  intensely,  and  means  good: 
To  find  its  meaning  is  my  meat  and  drink. 

Browning's  is  not  an  ignorant  optimism,  refusing  to  face  the 
sterner  and  uglier  sides  of  life,  but  one  based  upon  a  philo- 
sophy in  which  God  makes  use  of  evil  for  the  final  good  of 
man.  Accept  this  philosophy  or  not,  the  modern  reader 
whose  inherent  curiosity  about  life  has  not  "faded  into  the 
light  of  common  day"  will  at  least  find  stimulating  food  for 
thought,  and  will  feel  a  certain  satisfaction  in  coining  to  know 
an  original  mind  revealing  itself,  as  a  rule,  in  an  original  way, 
vigorous,  seldom  superficial,  sure  of  human  nature's  possibili- 
ties and  of  its  eventual  triumph  in  a  future  life  which  will 
somehow,  under  the  guidance  of  supreme  Mind  and  Love, 
combine  perfection  with  still  further  development. 


xx  INTRODUCTION 

But  Browning  is  by  no  means  always  so  serious  as  that. 
To  chronicle  all  life  is  to  show  the  lighter  side  as  well  as  the 
deeper,  and  we  find  in  Browning's  best  poetry,  usually  dra- 
matic and  therefore  dealing  concretely  rather  than  abstractly 
with  human  nature,  much  that  will  satisfy  the  common 
desire  for  emotional  appeal  and  for  excitement.  An  under- 
standing of  his  serious  commentary  on  life  is  necessary  to 
anything  like  full  appreciation  even  of  selected  poems;  but 
he  generally  keeps  his  philosophy  in  the  background  to  be 
brought  forth  only  when  character  and  situation  afford  natural 
opportunity. 

A  poet  who  speaks  optimistically  of  human  nature  while 
recognizing  its  faults  and  weaknesses;  who  speaks  with  faith 
and  conviction  of  a  supreme  Mind,  which  is  also  a  supreme 
Love,  back  of  the  universe;  who  can  make  all  sorts  of  inter- 
esting people  tell  an  amazing  variety  of  interesting  experi- 
ences of  mind,  soul,  and  body;  who  always  writes  with  vigor 
and  sometimes  with  great  beauty;  who  can  stimulate  the 
mind  as  few  English  poets  have  been  able  to  do,  and  can 
stir  nearly  all  the  emotions,  surely  has  something  of  interest 
to  offer  this  or  any  age.  Especially  to  an  age  of  post-war 
doubt  and  disillusionment,  Browning  can  give,  over  and 
above  mere  casual  enjoyment,  not,  perhaps,  a  completely 
satisfactory  answer  to  every  query,  but  at  least  the  proof 
that  an  original  and  curious  mind,  thinking  and  living  in 
an  age  of  doubt  and  skepticism,  was  able  to  find  joy  and 
peace  in  living  and  in  watching  life. 


A  BROWNING  READING   LIST 

BERDOE,  EDWARD.     The  Browning  Cyclopaedia.     1890. 
BROOKE,    STOPFORD.    The    Poetry    of    Robert    Browning. 

1902. 
CHESTERTON,  G.  K.    Browning.     (English  Men  of  Letters 

Series.)     1908. 

GOSSE,  EDMUND.     Robert  Browning:  Personalia.     1890. 
GRIFFIN,  W.  H.,  AND  MINCHIN,  H.  C.    The  Life  of  Robert 

Browning.     1910. 
ORR,  MRS.  S.    A  Handbook  to  the  Works  of  Browning. 

1902;  Life  and  Letters  of  Robert  Browning.     1908. 
PHELPS,  W.  L.     Browning:  How  to  Know  Him.     1915. 
The   Letters   of  Robert  Browning  and  Elizabeth   Barrett 

Browning.     1899. 


POEMS 


SONGS  FROM  PARACELSUS 

I 

I  hear  a  voice,  perchance  I  heard 

Long  ago,  but  all  too  low, 

So  that  scarce  a  care  it  stirred 

If  the  voice  were  real  or  no: 

I  heard  it  in  my  youth  when  first 

The  waters  of  my  life  outburst: 

But,  now  their  stream  ebbs  faint,  I  hear 

That  voice,  still  low,  but  fatal-clear — 

As  if  all  poets,  God  ever  meant 

Should  save  the  world,  and  therefore  lent 

Great  gifts  to,  but  who,  proud,  refused 

To  do  his  work,  or  lightly  used 

Those  gifts,  or  failed  through  weak  endeavour, 

So,  mourn  cast  off  by  him  forever, — 

As  if  these  leaned  in  airy  ring 

To  take  me;  this  the  song  they  sing. 

"Lost,  lost!  yet  come, 
With  our  wan  troup  make  thy  home. 
Come,  come!  for  we 
Will  not  breathe,  so  much  as  breathe 
Reproach  to  thee, 

Knowing  what  thou  sink'st  beneath. 
So  sank  we  in  those  old  years, 
We  who  bid  thee,  come!  thou  last 
Who,  living  yet,  hast  life  o'erpast. 
And  altogether  we,  thy  peers, 
Will  pardon  crave  for  thee,  the  last 
Whose  trial  is  done,  whose  lot  is  cast 
With  those  who  watch  but  work  no  more, 
Who  gaze  on  life  but  live  no  more. 
Yet  we  trusted  thou  shouldst  speak 
The  message  which  our  lips,  too  weak, 
Refused  to  utter, — shouldst  redeem 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

Our  fault:  such  trust,  and  all  a  dream! 

Yet  we  chose  thee  a  birthplace 

Where  the  richness  ran  to  flowers: 

Couldst  not  sing  one  song  for  grace? 

Nor  make  one  blossom  man's  and  ours? 

Must  one  more  recreant  to  his  race 

Die  with  unexerted  powers, 

And  join  us,  leaving  as  he  found 

The  world,  he  was  to  loosen,  bound? 

Anguish!  ever  and  forever; 

Still  beginning,  ending  never. 

Yet,  lost  and  last  one,  come! 

How  couldst  understand,  alas, 

What  our  pale  ghosts  strove  to  say, 

As  their  shades  did  glance  and  pass 

Before  thee  night  and  day? 

Thou  wast  blind  as  we  were  dumb: 

Once  more,  therefore,  come,  O  come! 

How  should  we  clothe,  how  arm  the  spirit 

Shall  next  thy  post  of  life  inherit — 

How  guard  him  from  thy  speedy  ruin? 

Tell  us  of  thy  sad  undoing 

Here,  where  we  sit,  ever  pursuing 

Our  weary  task,  ever  renewing 

Sharp  sorrow,  far  from  God  who  gave 

Our  powers,  and  man  they  could  not  save!" 

II 

Heap  cassia,  sandal-buds  and  stripes 

Of  labdanum,  and  aloe-balls, 
Smeared  with  dull  nard  an  Indian  wipes 
From  out  her  hair:  such  balsam  falls 
Down  sea-side  mountain  pedestals, 
From  tree-tops  where  tired  winds  are  fain, 
Spent  with  the  vast  and  howling  main, 
To  treasure  half  their  island-gain. 

And  strew  faint  sweetness  from  some  old 
Egyptian's  fine  worm-eaten  shroud 

Which  breaks  to  dust  when  once  unrolled; 
Or  shredded  perfume,  like  a  cloud 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS 

From  closet  long  to  quiet  vowed, 
With  mothed  and  dropping  arras  hung, 
Mouldering  her  lute  and  books  among, 
As  when  a  queen,  long  dead,  was  young. 

Ill 

Over  the  sea  our  galleys  went, 
With  cleaving  prows  in  order  brave 
To  a  speeding  wind  and  a  bounding  wave, 

A  gallant  armament: 
Each  bark  built  out  of  a  forest-tree 

Left  leafy  and  rough  as  first  it  grew, 
And  nailed  all  over  the  gaping  sides, 
Within  and  without,  with  black-bull  hides, 
Seethed  in  fat  and  suppled  in  flame, 
To  bear  the  playful  billows'  game: 
So,  each  good  ship  was  rude  to  see, 
Rude  and  bare  to  the  outward  view, 

But  each  upbore  a  stately  tent 
Where  cedar  pahs  in  scented  row 
Kept  out  the  flakes  of  the  dancing  brine, 
And  an  awning  drooped  the  mast  below, 
In  fold  on  fold  of  the  purple  fine, 
That  neither  noontide  nor  starshine 
Nor  moonlight  cold  which  maketh  mad, 

Might  pierce  the  regal  tenement. 
When  the  sun  dawned,  oh,  gay  and  glad 
We  set  the  sail  and  plied  the  oar; 
But  when  the  night-wind  blew  like  breath, 
For  joy  of  one  day's  voyage  more, 
We  sang  together  on  the  wide  sea, 
Like  men  at  peace  on  a  peaceful  shore; 
Each  sail  was  loosed  to  the  wind  so  free, 
Each  helm  made  sure  by  the  twilight  star, 
And  in  a  sleep  as  calm  as  death, 
We,  the  voyagers  from  afar, 

Lay  stretched  along,  each  weary  crew 
In  a  circle  round  its  wondrous  tent 
Whence  gleamed  soft  light  and  curled  rich  scent, 

And  with  light  and  perfume,  music  too: 
So  the  stars  wheeled  round,  and  the  darkness  past, 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

And  at  morn  we  started  beside  the  mast, 
And  still  each  ship  was  sailing  fast. 

Now,  one  morn,  land  appeared — a  speck 

Dim  trembling  betwixt  sea  and  sky: 
"Avoid  it,"  cried  our  pilot,  "check 

The  shout,  restrain  the  eager  eye!" 
But  the  heaving  sea  was  black  behind 
For  many  a  night  and  many  a  day, 
And  land,  though  but  a  rock,  drew  nigh; 
So,  we  broke  the  cedar  pales  away, 
Let  the  purple  awning  flap  in  the  wind, 

And  a  statue  bright  was  on  every  deck! 
We  shouted,  every  man  of  us, 
And  steered  right  into  the  harbour  thus, 
With  pomp  and  psean  glorious. 

A  hundred  shapes  of  lucid  stone ! 

All  day  we  built  its  shrine  for  each, 
A  shrine  of  rock  for  every  one, 
Nor  paused  till  in  the  westering  sun 

We  sat  together  on  the  beach 
To  sing  because  our  task  was  done. 
When  To!  what  shouts  and  merry  songs ; 
What  laughter  all  the  distance  stirs! 
A  loaded  raft  with  happy  throngs 
Of  gentle  islanders! 
"Our  isles  are  just  at  hand,"  they  cried, 

"Like  cloudlets  faint  in  even  sleeping; 
Our  temple-gates  are  opened  wide, 

Our  olive-groves  thick  shade  are  keeping 
For  these  majestic  forms" — they  cried. 
Oh,  then  we  awoke  with  sudden  start 
From  our  deep  dream,  and  knew,  too  late, 
How  bare  the  rock,  how  desolate, 
Which  had  received  our  precious  freight: 

Yet  we  called  put — "Depart! 
Our  gifts,  once  given,  must  here  abide. 

Our  work  is  done;  we  have  no  heart 
To  mar  our  work," — we  cried. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS 
IV 

Thus  the  Mayne  glideth 
Where  my  love  abideth. 
Sleep's  no  softer:  it  proceeds 
On  through  lawns,  on  through  meads, 
On  and  on,  whate'er  befall, 
Meandering  and  musical, 
Though  the  niggard  pasturage 
Bears  not  on  its  shaven  ledge 
Aught  but  weeds  and  waving  grasses 
To  view  the  river  as  it  passes, 
Save  here  and  there  a  scanty  patch 
Of  primroses  too  faint  to  catch 
A  weary  bee   .    .    .  and  scarce  it  pushes 
Its  gentle  way  through  strangling  rushes 
Where  the  glossy  kingfisher 
Flutters  when  noon-heats  are  near, 
Glad  the  shelving  banks  to  shun, 
Red  and  steaming  in  the  sun, 
Where  the  shrew-mouse  with  pale  throat 
Burrows,  and  the  speckled  stoat; 
Where  the  quick  sandpipers  flit 
In  and  out  the  marl  and  grit 
That  seems  to  breed  them,  brown  as  they: 
Nought  disturbs  its  quiet  way, 
Save  some  lazy  stork  that  springs, 
Trailing  it  with  legs  and  wings, 
Whom  the  shy  fox  from  the  hill 
Rouses,  creep  he  ne'er  so  still. 

(1835.) 


CAVALIER  TUNES 

I.      MARCHING  ALONG 

Kentish  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King, 

Bidding  the  crop-headed 'Parliament  swing: 

And,  pressing  a  troop  unable  to  stoop 

And  see  the  rogues  flourish  and  honest  folk  droop, 

Marched  them  along,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 


8  ROBERT  BROWNING 

God  for  King  Charles!    Pym  and  such  carles 
To  the  Devil  that  prompts  'em  their  treasonous  paries! 
Cavaliers,  up!    Lips  from  the  cup, 
Hands  from  the  pasty,  nor  bite  take  nor  sup 
Till  you're— 
Chorus — Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 

Hampden  to  hell,  and  his  obsequies'  knell 
Serve  Hazelrig,  Fiennes,  and  young  Harry  as  well! 
England,  good  cheer!    Rupert  is  near! 
Kentish  and  loyalists,  keep  we  not  here 
Chorus — Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song? 

Then,  God  for  King  Charles!    Pym  and  his  snarls 
To  the  Devil  that  pricks  on  such  pestilent  carles! 
Hold  by  the  right,  you  double  your  might; 
So,  onward  to  Nottingham,  fresh  for  the  fight, 
Chorus — March  we  along,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song! 

II.      GIVE  A   ROUSE 

King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now? 
Give  a  rouse:  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles! 

Who  gave  me  the  goods  that  went  since? 
Who  raised  me  the  house  that  sank  once? 
Who  helped  me  to  gold  I  spent  since? 
Who  found  me  in  wine  you  drank  once? 

Chorus — King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now? 

King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now? 

Give  a  rouse:  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 

King  Charles! 

To  whom  used  my  boy  George  quaff  else, 
By  the  old  fool's  side  that  begot  him? 
For  whom  did  he  cheer  and  laugh  else, 
While  Noll's  damned  troopers  shot  him? 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS 

Chorus — King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now? 
Give  a  rouse:  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles! 

III.      BOOT  AND   SADDLE 

Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away! 
Rescue  my  castle  before  the  hot  day 
Brightens  to  blue  from  its  silvery  gray, 
Chorus — Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away  I 

Ride  past  the  suburbs,  asleep  as  you'd  say; 
Many's  the  friend  there,  will  listen  and  pray 
"God's  luck  to  gallants  that  strike  up  the  lay — 
Chorus — Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away!" 

Forty  miles  off,  like  a  roebuck  at  bay, 
Flouts  Castle  Brancepeth  the  Roundheads'  array: 
Who  laughs,  "Good  fellows  ere  this,  by  my  fay, 
Chorus — Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away!" 

Who?    My  wife  Gertrude;  that,  honest  and  gay. 
Laughs  when  you  talk  of  surrendering,  "Nay! 
I've  better  counsellors;  what  counsel  they? 
Chorus — Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away!" 

(1842.) 

THE  LOST  LEADER 

i 
Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us, 

Just  for  a  riband  to  stick  in  his  coat — 
Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  bereft  us, 

Lost  all  the  others  she  lets  us  devote; 
They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  doled  him  out  silver, 

So  much  was  their's  who  so  little  allowed: 
How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  service! 

Rags — were  they  purple,  his  heart  had  been  proud  f 
We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed  him,  honoured  himr 

Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye, 
Learned  his  great  language,  caught  his  clear  accents,. 

Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to  die! 


10  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us, 

Burns,   Shelley,   were  with  us, — they  watch  from  their 

graves! 
He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  freemen, 

— He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the  slaves! 

ii 
We  shall  march  prospering, — not  thro'  his  presence; 

Songs  may  inspirit  us, — not  from  his  lyre; 
Deeds  will  be  done, — while  he  boasts  his  quiescence, 

Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest  bade  aspire: 
Blot  out  his  name,  then,  record  one  lost  soul  more, 

One  task  more  declined,  one  more  footpath  untrod, 
One  more  devils  '-triumph  and  sorrow  for  angels, 

One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult  to  God  f 
Life's  night  begins:  let  him  never  come  back  to  us! 

There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation  and  pain, 
Forced  praise  on  our  part — the  glimmer  of  twilight, 

Never  glad  confident  morning  again ! 
Best  fight  on  well,  for  we  taught  him — strike  gallantly, 

Menace  pur  heart  ere  we  master  his  own ; 
Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge  and  wait  us, 

Pardoned  in  Heaven,  the  first  by  the  throne! 

(1845.) 

"HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS  FROM 
GHENT  TO  AIX" 

[16-] 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he; 

I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three; 

"Goodspeed!"  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate-bolts  undrew; 

"Speed!"  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through; 

Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest, 

And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other;  we  kept  the  great  pace 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing  our  place; 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the  pique  right, 
Rebuckled  the  cheek-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit, 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  11 

'T  was  moonset  at  starting;  but  while  we  drew  near 

Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight  dawned  clear; 

At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see; 

At  Diiff eld,  't  was  morning  as  plain  as  could  be; 

And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard  the  half-chime, 

So  Joris  broke  silence  with,  "Yet  there  is  time!" 

At  Aershot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun, 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  one, 
To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past, 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at  last, 
With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 
The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its  spray: 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear  bent  back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his  track; 
And  one  eye's  black  intelligence, — ever  that  glance 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master,  askance! 
And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes  which  aye  and  anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping  on. 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned;  and  cried  Joris,  "Stay  spur! 
Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault's  not  in  her, 
We'll  remember  at  Aix" — for  one  heard  the  quick  wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck  and  staggering  knees, 
And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank, 
As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 

So,  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky; 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 

'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright  stubble  like  chaff; 

Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang  white, 

And  "Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "for  Aix  is  in  sight!" 

"How  they'll  greet  us!" — and  all  in  a  moment  his  roan 
Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone ; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her  fate, 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the  brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 


12  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buffcoat,  each  holster  let  fall, 

Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all, 

Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 

Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my  horse  without  peer; 

Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any  noise,  bad  or  good, 

Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is — friends  flocking  round 
As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the  ground; 
And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine, 
As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of  wine, 
Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 
Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news  from 
Ghent- 

(1845.) 

THE  FLOWER'S  NAME 

Here's  the  garden  she  walked  across, 

Arm  in  my  arm,  such  a  short  while  since: 
Hark,  now  I  push  its  wicket,  the  moss 

Hinders  the  hinges  and  makes  them  wince! 
She  must  have  reached  this  shrub  ere  she  turned, 

As  back  with  that  murmur  the  wicket  swung; 
For  she  laid  the  poor  snail,  my  chance  foot  spurned, 

To  feed  and  forget  it  the  leaves  among. 

Down  this  side  of  the  gravel-walk 

She  went  while  her  robe's  edge  brushed  the  box: 
And  here  she  paused  in  her  gracious  talk 

To  point  me  a  moth  on  the  milk-white  flox. 
Roses,  ranged  in  valiant  row, 

I  will  never  think  that  she  passed  you  by! 
She  loves  you  noble  roses,  I  know; 

But  yonder,  see,  where  the  rock-plants  lie! 

This  flower  she  stopped  at,  finger  on  lip, 
Stooped  over,  in  doubt,  as  settling  its  claim; 

Till  she  gave  me,  with  pride  to  make  no  slip, 
Its  soft  meandering  Spanish  name: 

What  a  name !    Was  it  love  or  praise? 
Speech  half-asleep  or  song  half-awake? 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  13 

I  must  learn  Spanish,  one  of  these  days, 
Only  for  that  slow  sweet  name's  sake. 

Roses,  if  I  live  and  do  well, 

I  may  bring  her,  one  of  these  days, 
To  fix  you  fast  with  as  fine  a  spell, 

Fit  you  each  with  his  Spanish  phrase; 
But  do  not  detain  me  now;  for  she  lingers 

There,  like  sunshine  over  the  ground, 
And  ever  I  see  her  soft  white  fingers 

Searching  after  the  bud  she  found. 

Flower,  you  Spaniard,  look  that  you  grow  not, 

Stay  as  you  are  and  be  loved  for  ever! 
Bud,  if  I  kiss  you  'tis  that  you  blow  not: 

Mind,  the  shut  pink  mouth  opens  never! 
For  while  it  pouts,  her  fingers  wrestle, 

Twinkling  the  audacious  leaves  between, 
Till  round  they  turn  and  down  they  nestle — 

Is  not  the  dear  mark  still  to  be  seen? 

Where  I  find  her  not,  beauties  vanish; 

Whither  I  follow  her,  beauties  flee; 
Is  there  no  method  to  tell  her  in  Spanish 

June's  twice  June  since  she  breathed  it  with  me? 
Come,  bud,  show  me  the  least  of  her  traces, 

Treasure  my  lady's  lightest  footfall ! 
— Ah,  you  may  flout  and  turn  up  your  faces — 

Roses,  you  are  not  so  fair  after  all! 

(1845.) 


SOLILOQUY  OF  THE  SPANISH  CLOISTER 

Gr-r-r — there  go,  my  heart's  abhorrence! 

Water  your  damned  flower-pots,  do! 
If  hate  killed  men,  Brother  Lawrence, 

God's  blood,  would  not  mine  kill  you! 
What?  your  myrtle-bush  wants  trimming? 

Oh,  that  rose  has  prior  claims — 
Needs  its  leaden  vase  filled  brimming? 

Hell  dry  you  up  with  its  flames! 


14  ROBERT  BROWNING 

At  the  meal  we  sit  together: 

Salve  tibi!    I  must  hear 
Wise  talk  of  the  kind  of  weather, 

Sort  of  season,  time  of  year: 
Not  a  plenteous  cork-crop:  scarcely 

Dare  we  hope  oak-galls,  I  doubt: 
What's  the  Latin  name  for  "parsley"? 

What's  the  Greek  name  for  Swine's  Snout? 

Whew!    We'll  have  our  platter  burnished, 

Laid  with  care  on  our  own  shelf! 
With  a  fire-new  spoon  we've  furnished, 

And  a  goblet  for  ourself , 
Rinsed  like  something  sacrificial 

Ere  't  is  fit  to  touch  our  chaps — 
Marked  with  L  for  our  initial! 

(He-he!    There  his  lily  snaps!) 

Saint,  forsooth!    While  brown  Dolores 

Squats  outside  the  Convent  bank 
With  Sanchicha,  telling  stories, 

Steeping  tresses  in  the  tank, 
Blue-black,  lustrous,  thick  like  horsehairs, 

— Can't  I  see  his  dead  eye  glow, 
Bright  as  't  were  a  Barbary  corsair's? 

(That  is,  if  he'd  let  it  show!) 

When  he  finishes  refection, 

Knife  and  fork  he  never  lays 
Cross- wise,  to  my  recollection, 

As  do  I,  in  Jesu's  praise. 
I  the  Trinity  illustrate, 

Drinking  watered  orange-pulp — 
In  three  sips  the  Arian1  frustrate ; 

While  he  drains  his  at  one  gulp. 

Oh,  those  melons!     If  he's  able 

We're  to  have  a  feast!  so  nice! 
One  goes  to  the  Abbot's  table, 

All  of  us  get  each  a  slice. 

1  Follower  of  Arius,  a  fourth  century  heretic,  who  denied  the  doc- 
trine of  the  Trinity. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  15 

How  go  on  your  flowers?    None  double? 

Not  one  fruit-sort  can  you  spy? 
Strange! — And  I,  too,  at  such  trouble, 

Keep  them  close-nipped  on  the  sly! 

There's  a  great  text  in  Galatians,1 

Once  you  trip  on  it,  entails 
Twenty-nine  distinct  damnations, 

One  sure,  if  another  fails: 
If  I  trip  him  just  a-dying, 

Sure  of  heaven  as  sure  can  be, 
Spin  him  round  and  send  him  flying 

Off  to  hell,  a  Manichee?2 

Or,  my  scrofulous  French  novel 

On  gray  paper  with  blunt  type  I 
Simply  glance  at  it,  you  grovel 

Hand  and  foot  in  Belial's  gripe : 
If  I  double  down  its  pages 

At  the  woeful  sixteenth  print, 
When  he  gathers  his  greengages, 

Ope  a  sieve  and  slip  it  in  't? 

Or,  there's  Satan! — one  might  venture 

Pledge  one's  soul  to  him,  yet  leave 
Such  a  flaw  in  the  indenture 

As  he'd  miss  till,  past  retrieve, 
Blasted  lay  that  rose-acacia 

We're  so  proud  of!    Hy,  Zy,  Hine  .    .    . 
'St,  there's  Vespers!    Plena  gratid, 

Ave,  Virgo!3    Gr-r-r — you  swine! 

(1842.) 

1  Probably  Galatiana  5:19-21. 

2  Follower  of  Manes,  leader  of  an  heretical  sect. 

3  The  prayer  Ave  Maria,  gratia  plena  (Hail  Mary,  full  of  grace) 
slightly  changed  to  suit  rhyme  and  meter. 

THE  LABORATORY 

ANCIEN   REGIME 

Now  that  I,  tying  thy  glass  mask  tightly, 
May  gaze  through  these  faint  smokes  curling  whitely, 
As  thou  pliest  thy  trade  in  this  devil's-smithy — 
Which  is  the  poison  to  poison  her,  prithee? 


16  ROBERT  BROWNING 

He  is  with  her,  and  they  know  that  I  know 
Where  they  are,  what  they  do :-  they  believe  my  tears  flow 
While  they  laugh,  laugh  at  me,  at  me  fled  to  the  drear 
Empty  church,  to  pray  God  in,  for  them! — I  am  here. 

Grind  away,  moisten  and  mash  up  thy  paste, 
Pound  at  thy  powder, — I  am  not  in  haste! 
Better  sit  thus,  and  observe  thy  strange  things, 
Than  go  where  men  wait  me  and  dance  at  the  King's. 

That  in  the  mortar — you  call  it  a  gum? 
Ah,  the  brave  tree  whence  such  gold  oozings  come 
And  yonder  soft  phial,  the  exquisite  blue, 
Sure  to  taste  sweetly, — is  that  poison  too? 

Had  I  but  all  of  them,  thee  and  thy  treasures, 
What  a  wild  crowd  of  invisible  pleasures! 
To  carry  pure  death  in  an  earring,  a  casket, 
A  signet,  a  fan-mount,  a  filigree  basket! 

Soon,  at  the  King's,  a  mere  lozenge  to  give, 

And  Pauline  should  have  just  thirty  minutes  to  live! 

But  to  light  a  pastile,  and  Elise,  with  her  head 

And  her  breast  and  her  arms  and  her  hands,  should  drop  dead! 

•Quick — is  it  finished?    The  color's  too  grim! 
Why  not  soft  like  the  phial's,  enticing  and  dim? 
Let  it  brighten  her  drink,  let  her  turn  it  and  stir, 
And  try  it  and  taste,  ere  she  fix  and  prefer! 

What  a  drop!    She's  not  little,  no  minion  like  me! 
That's  why  she  ensnared  him :  this  never  will  free 
The  soul  from  those  masculine  eyes, — say,  "no!" 
To  that  pulse's  magnificent  come-and-go. 

For  only  last  night,  as  they  whispered,  I  brought 
My  own  eyes  to  bear  on  her  so,  that  I  thought 
•Could  I  keep  them  one  half  minute  fixed,  she  would  fall 
Shrivelled;  she  fell  not;  yet  this  does  it  all! 

Not  that  I  bid  you  spare  her  the  pain ; 
Let  death  be  felt  and  the  proof  remain : 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  IT 

Brand,  burn  up,  bite  into  its  grace — 
He  is  sure  to  remember  her  dying  face  I 

Is  it  done?    Take  my  mask  off!    Nay,  be  not  morose; 
It  kills  her,  and  this  prevents  seeing  it  close: 
The  delicate  droplet,  my  whole  fortune's  feel 
If  it  hurts  her,  beside,  can  it  ever  hurt  me? 

Now,  take  all  my  jewels,  gorge  gold  to  your  fill, 
You  may  kiss  me,  old  man,  on  my  mouth  if  you  will! 
But  brush  this  dust  off  me,  lest  horror  it  brings 
Ere  I  know  it — next  moment  I  dance  at  the  King's! 

(1845.) 

THE  CONFESSIONAL 

SPAIN 

It  is  a  lie — their  Priests,  their  Pope, 
Their  Saints,  their  ...  all  they  fear  or  hope 
Are  lies,  and  lies — there!  through  my  door 
And  ceiling,  there!  and  walls  and  floor 
There,  lies,  they  lie — shall  still  be  hurled 
Till  spite  of  them  I  reach  the  world! 

You  think  Priests  just  and  holy  men! 
Before  they  put  me  in  this  den 
I  was  a  human  creature  too, 
With  flesh  and  blood  like  one  of  you, 
A  girl  that  laughed  in  beauty's  pride 
Like  lilies  in  your  world  outside. 

I  had  a  lover — shame  avaunt! 

This  poor  wrenched  body,  grim  and  gauntt 

Was  kissed  all  over  till  it  burned, 

By  lips  the  truest,  love  e'er  turned 

His  heart's  own  tint:  one  night  they  kissed 

My  soul  out  in  a  burning  mist. 

So,  next  day  when  the  accustomed  train 
Of  things  grew  round  my  sense  again, 
"That  is  a  sin,"  I  said:  and  slow 
With  downcast  eyes  to  church  I  go. 


18  ROBERT  BROWNING 

And  pass  to  the  confession-chair, 
And  tell  the  old  mild  father  there. 

But  when  I  falter  Beltran's  name, 
"Ha!;'  quoth  the  father;  "much  I  blame 
The  sin;  yet  wherefore  idly  grieve? 
Despair  not — strenuously  retrieve! 
Nay,  I  will  turn  this  love  of  thine 
To  lawful  love,  almost  divine; 

"For  he  is  young,  and  led  astray, 
This  Beltran,  and  he  schemes,  men  say, 
To  change  the  laws  of  church  and  state; 
So,  thine  shall  be  an  angel's  fate, 
Who,  ere  the  thunder  breaks,  shall  roll 
Its  cloud  away  and  save  his  soul. 

"For,  when  he  lies  upon  thy  breast, 
Thou  mayest  demand  and  be  possessed 
Of  all  his  plans,  and  next  day  steal 
To  me,  and  all  those  plans  reveal, 
That  I  and  every  priest,  to  purge 
His  soul,  may  fast  and  use  the  scourge." 

That  father's  beard  was  long  and  white, 
With  love  and  truth  his  brow  seemed  bright; 
I  went  back,  all  on  fire  with  joy, 
And,  that  same  evening,  bade  the  boy 
Tell  me,  as  lovers  should,  heart-free, 
Something  to  prove  his  love  of  me. 

He  told  me  what  he  would  not  tell 
For  hope  of  heaven  or  fear  of  hell ; 
And  I  lay  listening  in  such  pride! 
And,  soon  as  he  had  left  my  side, 
Tripped  to  the  church  by  morning-light 
To  save  his  soul  in  his  despite. 

I  told  the  father  all  his  schemes, 
Who  were  his  comrades,  what  their  dreams; 
"And  now  make  haste,"  I  said,  "to  pray 
The  one  spot  from  his  soul  away; 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  19 

To-night  he  comes,  but  not  the  same 
Will  look!"    At  night  he  never  came. 

Nor  next  night:  on  the  after-morn, 
I  went  forth  with  a  strength  new-born. 
The  church  was  empty;  something  drew 
My  steps  into  the  street;  I  knew 
It  led  me  to  the  market-place: 
Where,  lo,  on  high,  the  father's  face! 

That  horrible  black  scaffold  dressed, 

That  stapled  block   .    .    .   God  sink  the  rest! 

That  head  strapped  back,  that  blinding  vest, 

Those  knotted  hands  and  naked  breast, 

Till  near  one  busy  hangman  pressed, 

And,  on  the  neck  these  arms  caressed     .    .    . 

No  part  in  aught  they  hope  or  fear! 
No  heaven  with  them,  no  hell! — and  here, 
No  earth,  not  so  much  space  as  pens 
My  body  in  their  worst  of  dens 
But  shall  bear  God  and  man  my  cry, 
Lies — lies,  again — and  still  they  lie! 

(1845.) 

CRISTINA 

She  should  never  have  looked  at  me 

If  she  meant  I  should  not  love  her! 
There  are  plenty  .    .    .  men,  you  call  such, 

I  suppose   .    .    .  she  may  discover 
All  her  soul  to,  if  she  pleases, 

And  yet  leave  much  as  she  found  them: 
But  I'm  not  so,  and  she  knew  it 

When  she  fixed  me,  glancing  round  them. 

What?    To  fix  me  thus  meant  nothing? 

But  I  can't  tell  (there's  my  weakness) 
What  her  look  said! — no  vile  cant,  sure, 

About  "need  to  strew  the  bleakness 
Of  some  lone  shore  with  its  pearl-seed 

That  the  sea  feels" — no  "strange  yearning 


20  ROBERT  BROWNING 

That  such  souls  have,  most  to  lavish 

Where  there's  chance  of  least  returning." 

Oh,  we're  sunk  enough  here,  God  knows! 

But  not  quite  so  sunk  that  moments, 
Sure  though  seldom,  are  denied  us, 

When  the  spirit's  true  endowments 
Stand  out  plainly  from  its  false  ones, 

And  apprise  it  if  pursuing 
Or  the  right  way  or  the  wrong  way, 

To  its  triumph  or  undoing. 

There  are  flashes  struck  from  midnights, 

There  are  fire-flames  noondays  kindle, 
Whereby  piled-up  honors  perish, 

Whereby  swollen  ambitions  dwindle, 
While  just  this  or  that  poor  impulse, 

Which  for  once  had  play  unstifled, 
Seems  the  sole  work  of  a  life-time, 

That  away  the  rest  have  trifled. 

Doubt  you  if,  in  some  such  moment, 

As  she  fixed  me,  she  felt  clearly, 
Ages  past  the  soul  existed, 

Here  an  age  't  is  resting  merely, 
And  hence  fleets  again  for  ages, 

While  the  true  end,  sole  and  single, 
It  stops  here  for  is,  this  love-way, 

With  some  other  soul  to  mingle? 

Else  it  loses  what  it  lived  for, 

And  eternally  must  lose  it; 
Better  ends  may  be  in  prospect, 

Deeper  blisses  (if  you  choose  it), 
But  this  life's  end  and  this  love-bliss 

Have  been  lost  here.     Doubt  you  whether 
This  she  felt  as,  looking  at  me, 

Mine  and  her  souls  rushed  together? 

Oh,  observe!     Of  course,  next  moment, 

The  world's  honours,  in  derision, 
Trampled  out  the  light  for  ever; 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  21 

Never  fear  but  there's  provision 
Of  the  devil's  to  quench  knowledge 

Lest  we  walk  the  earth  in  rapture! 
— Making  those  who  catch  God's  secret 

Just  so  much  more  prize  their  capture! 

Such  am  I:  the  secret's  mine  now! 

She  has  lost  me,  I  have  gained  her; 
Her  soul's  mine:  and  thus,  grown  perfect, 

I  shall  pass  my  life's  remainder. 
Life  will  just  hold  out  the  proving 

Both  our  powers,  alone  and  blended : 
And  then,  come  the  next  life  quickly! 

This  world's  use  will  have  been  ended. 

(1842.) 

THE  LOST  MISTRESS 

All's  over,  then:  does  truth  sound  bitter 

As  one  at  first  believes? 
Hark,  't  is  the  sparrows'  good-night  twitter 

About  your  cottage  eaves! 

And  the  leaf-buds  on  the  vine  are  woolly, 

I  noticed  that,  to-day; 
One  day  more  bursts  them  open  fully — 

You  know  the  red  turns  gray. 

To-morrow  we  meet  the  same  then,  dearest? 

May  I  take  your  hand  in  mine? 
Mere  friends  are  we, — well,  friends  the  merest 

Keep  much  that  I  resign : 

For  each  glance  of  the  eye  so  bright  and  black, 
Though  I  keep  with  heart's  endeavor, — 

Your  voice,  when  you  wish  the  snowdrops  back, 
Though  it  stay  in  my  soul  forever! — 

Yet  I  will  but  say  what  mere  friends  say, 

Or  only  a  thought  stronger; 
I  will  hold  your  hand  but  as  long  as  all  may, 

Or  so  very  little  longer! 


22  ROBERT  BROWNING 

EARTH'S  IMMORTALITIES 

FAME 

See,  as  the  prettiest  graves  will  do  in  time, 
Our  poet's  wants  the  freshness  of  its  prime; 
Spite  of  the  sexton's  browsing  horse,  the  sods 
Have  struggled  through  its  binding  osier  rods; 
Headstone  and  half-sunk  footstone  lean  awry, 
Wanting  the  brick- work  promised  by-and-by; 
How  the  minute  gray  lichens,  plate  o'er  plate, 
Have  softened  down  the  crisp-cut  name  and  date! 

LOVE 

So,  the  year's  done  with! 

(Love  me  forever!) 
All  March  begun  with, 

April's  endeavor; 
May-wreaths  that  bound  me 

June  needs  must  sever; 
Now  snows  fall  round  me, 

Quenching  June's  fever — 

(Love  me  forever!) 

(1845.) 

MEETING  AT  NIGHT» 

The  gray  sea  and  the  long  black  land; 
And  the  yellow  half-moon  large  and  low; 
And  the  startled  little  waves  that  leap 
In  fiery  ringlets  from  their  sleep, 
As  I  gain  the  cove  with  pushing  prow, 
And  quench  its  speed  i '  the  slushy  sand. 

Then  a  mile  of  warm  sea-scented  beach; 
Three  fields  to  cross  till  a  farm  appears; 

1  In  reply  to  a  question  about  this  and  the  following  poem  Browning 
wrote  the  following  explanation  of  the  last  line:  ".  .  .  it  is  his  confession 
of  how  fleeting  is  the  belief  (implied  in  the  first  part)  that  such  raptures 
are  self-sufficient  and  enduring — as  for  the  moment  they  appear." 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  23 

A  tap  at  the  pane,  the  quick  sharp  scratch 
And  blue  spurt  of  a  lighted  match, 
And  a  voice  less  loud,  through  its  joys  and  fears, 
Than  the  two  hearts  beating  each  to  each! 


PARTING  AT  MORNING 

Round  the  cape  of  a  sudden  came  the  sea, 
And  the  sun  looked  over  the  mountain's  rim : 
And  straight  was  a  path  of  gold  for  him, 
And  the  need  of  a  world  of  men  for  me. 

(1845.) 


SONG 

Nay  but  you,  who  do  not  love  her, 

Is  she  not  pure  gold,  my  mistress? 
Holds  earth  aught — speak  truth — above  her? 

Aught  like  this  tress,  see,  and  this  tress, 
And  this  last  fairest  tress  of  all, 
So  fair,  see,  ere  I  let  it  fall? 

Because  you  spend  your  lives  in  praising; 

To  praise,  you  search  the  wide  world  over: 
Then  why  not  witness,  calmly  gazing, 

If  earth  holds  aught — speak  truth — above  her? 
Above  this  tress,  and  this,  I  touch 
But  cannot  praise,  I  love  so  much! 

(1845.) 


A  WOMAN'S  LAST  WORD 

Let's  contend  no  more,  Love, 

Strive  nor  weep: 
All  be  as  before,  Love, 

— Only  sleep! 

What  so  wild  as  words  are? 
I  and  thou 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

In  debate,  as  birds  are, 
Hawk  on  bough! 

See  the  creature  stalking 

While  we  speak! 
Hush  and  hide  the  talking, 

Cheek  on  cheek! 

What  so  false  as  truth  is, 

False  to  thee? 
Where  the  serpent's  tooth  is 

Shun  the  tree — 

Where  the  apple  reddens 

Never  pry — 
Lest  we  lose  our  Edens, 

Eve  and  I. 

Be  a  god  and  hold  me 

With  a  charm! 
Be  a  man  and  fold  me 

With  thine  arm! 

Teach  me,  only  teach,  Love! 

As  I  ought 
I  will  speak  thy  speech,  Love. 

Think  thy  thought- 
Meet,  if  thou  require  it, 

Both  demands, 
Laying  flesh  and  spirit 

In  thy  hands. 

That  shall  be  to-morrow, 

Not  to-night: 
I  must  bury  sorrow 

Out  of  sight: 

— Must  a  little  weep,  Love, 

(Foolish  me!) 
And  so  fall  asleep,  Love, 

Loved  by  thee. 

(1855.) 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  25 

EVELYN  HOPE 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed; 

She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium-flower, 
Beginning  to  die  too,  in  the  glass; 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think: 
The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass 

Save  two  long  rays  through  the  hinge's  chink. 

Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my  name; 
It  was  not  her  time  to  love;  beside, 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim, 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares, 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir, 
Till  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares, — 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 

Is  it  too  late  then,  Evelyn  Hope? 

What,  your  soul  was  pure  and  true, 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire  and  dew — 
And,  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old 

And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so  wide, 
Each  was  naught  to  each,  must  I  be  told? 

We  were  fellow  mortals,  naught  beside? 

No,  indeed!  for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make, 
And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love: 

I  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love's  sake! 
Delayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet, 

Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a  few: 
Much  is  to  learn,  much  to  forget 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 

But  the  tune  will  come, — at  last  it  will, 
When,  Evelyn  Hope,  what  meant  (I  shall  say) 

In  the  lower  earth,  in  the  years  long  still, 
That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay? 


26  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Why  your  hair  was  amber,  I  shall  divine, 
And  your  mouth  of  your  own  geranium's  red — 

And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  fine, 
In  the  new  life  come  hi  the  old  one's  stead. 

I  have  lived  (I  shall  say)  so  much  since  then, 

Given  up  myself  so  many  tunes, 
Gamed  me  the  gains  of  various  men, 

Ransacked  the  ages,  spoiled  the  climes; 
Yet  one  thing,  one,  in  my  soul's  full  scope, 

Either  I  missed  or  itself  missed  me : 
And  I  want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope  I 

What  is  the  issue?  let  us  see! 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while! 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold; 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank  young  smile, 

And  the  red  young  mouth,  and  the  hair's  young  gold. 
So,  hush, — I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep: 

See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet  cold  hand! 
There,  that  is  our  secret:  go  to  sleep! 

You  will  wake,  and  remember,  and  understand. 

(1855.) 
LOVE  AMONG  THE  RUINS 

Where  the  quiet-colored  end  of  evening  smiles 

Miles  and  miles 
On  the  solitary  pastures  where  our  sheep 

Half-asleep 
Tinkle  homeward  through  the  twilight,  stray  or  stop 

As  they  crop — 
Was  the  site  once  of  a  city  great  and  gay, 

(So  they  say)  _ 
Of  our  country's  very  capital,  its  prince 

Ages  since 
Held  his  court  in,  gathered  councils,  wielding  far 

Peace  or  war. 

Now, — the  country  does  not  even  boast  a  tree, 

As  you  see, 
To  distinguish  slopes  of  verdure,  certain  rills 

From  the  hills 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  27 

Intersect  and  give  a  name  to,  (else  they  run 

Into  one) 
Where  the  domed  and  daring  palace  shot  its  spires 

Up  like  fires 
O'er  the  hundred-gated  circuit  of  a  wall 

Bounding  all, 
Made  of  marble,  men  might  march  on  nor  be  pressed, 

Twelve  abreast. 

And  such  plenty  and  perfection,  see,  of  grass 

Never  was! 
Such  a  carpet  as,  this  summer-time,  o'erspreads 

And  embeds 
Every  vestige  of  the  city,  guessed  alone, 

Stock  or  stone — 
Where  a  multitude  of  men  breathed  joy  and  woe 

Long  ago; 
Lust  of  glory  pricked  their  hearts  up,  dread  of  shame 

Struck  them  tame; 
And  that  glory  and  that  shame  alike,  the  gold 

Bought  and  sold. 

Now, — the  single  little  turret  that  remains 

On  the  plains, 
By  the  caper  overrooted,  by  the  gourd 

Overscored, 
While  the  patching  houseleek's  head  of  blossom  winks 

Through  the  chinks — 
Marks  the  basement  whence  a  tower  in  ancient  time 

Sprang  sublime, 
And  a  burning  ring,  all  round,  the  chariots  traced 

As  they  raced, 
And  the  monarch  and  his  minions  and  his  dames 

Viewed  the  games. 

And  I  know,  while  thus  the  quiet-colored  eve 

Smiles  to  leave 
To  their  folding,  all  our  many-tinkling  fleece 

In  such  peace, 
And  the  slopes  and  rills  in  undistinguished  gray 

Melt  away — 


28  ROBERT  BROWNING 

That  a  girl  with  eager  eyes  and  yellow  hair 

Waits  me  there 
In  the  turret  whence  the  charioteers  caught  soul 

For  the  goal, 
When  the  king  looked,  where  she  looks  now,  breathless,  dumb 

Till  I  come. 

But  he  looked  upon  the  city,  every  side, 

Far  and  wide, 
All  the  mountains  topped  with  temples,  all  the  glades' 

Colonnades, 
All  the  causeys,  bridges,  aqueducts, — and  then, 

All  the  men! 
When  I  do  come,  she  will  speak  not,  she  will  stand, 

Either  hand 
On  my  shoulder,  give  her  eyes  the  first  embrace 

Of  my  face, 
Ere  we  rush,  ere  we  extinguish  sight  and  speech 

Each  on  each. 

In  one  year  they  sent  a  million  fighters  forth 

South  and  North, 
And  they  built  their  gods  a  brazen  pillar  high 

As  the  sky, 
Yet  reserved  a  thousand  chariots  in  full  force — 

Gold,  of  course. 
Oh  heart!  oh  blood  that  freezes,  blood  that  burns! 

Earth's  returns 
For  whole  centuries  of  folly,  noise  and  sin! 

Shut  them  in, 
With  their  triumphs  and  their  glories  and  the  rest! 

Love  is  best. 

(1855.) 

UP  AT  A  VILLA— DOWN  IN  THE  CITY 

(AS  DISTINGUISHED  BY  AN  ITALIAN  PERSON  OF  QUALITY) 

Had  I  but  plenty  of  money,  money  enough  and  to  spare, 
The  house  for  me,  no  doubt,  were  a  house  in  the  city-square; 
Ah,  such  a  life,  such  a  life,  as  one  leads  at  the  window  there! 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  29 

Something  to  see,  by  Bacchus,  something  to  hear,  at  least! 
There,  the  whole  day  long,  one's  life  is  a  perfect  feast; 
While  up  at  a  villa  one  lives,  I  maintain  it,  no  more  than  a 
beast. 

Well  now,  look  at  our  villa!  stuck  like  the  horn  of  a  bull 
Just  on  a  mountain-edge  as  bare  as  the  creature's  skull, 
Save  a  mere  shag  of  a  bush  with  hardly  a  leaf  to  pull ! 
— I  scratch  my  own,  sometimes,  to  see  if  the  hair's  turned 
wool. 

But  the  city,  oh  the  city — the  square  with  the  houses!    Why? 
They  are  stone-faced,  white  as  a  curd,  there's  something  to 

take  the  eye! 

Houses  in  four  straight  lines,  not  a  single  front  awry; 
You  watch  who  crosses  and  gossips,   who  saunters,  who 

hurries  by; 
Green  blinds,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  draw  when  the  sun 

gets  high; 
And  the  shops  with  fanciful  signs  which  are  painted  properly. 

What  of  a  villa?    Though  winter  be  over  in  March  by  rights, 
'T  is  May  perhaps  ere  the  snow  shall  have  withered  well  off 

the  heights: 
You've  the  brown  ploughed  land  before,  where  the  oxen 

steam  and  wheeze, 
And  the  hills  over-smoked  behind  by  the  faint  gray  olive-trees. 

Is  it  better  in  May,  I  ask  you?    You've  summer  all  at  once; 
In  a  day  he  leaps  complete  with  a  few  strong  April  suns. 
'Mid  the  sharp  short  emerald  wheat,  scarce  risen  three 

fingers  well, 

The  wild  tulip,  at  end  of  its  tube,  blows  out  its  great  red  bell 
Like  a  thin  clear  bubble  of  blood,  for  the  children  to  pick  and 

sell. 

Is  it  ever  hot  in  the  square?    There's  a  fountain  to  spout 

and  splash! 
In  the  shade  it  sings  and  springs;  in  the  shine  such  foam-bows 

flash 
On  the  horses  with  curling  fish-tails,  that  prance  and  paddle 

and  pash 


30  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Round  the  lady  atop  in  her  conch — fifty  gazers  do  not  abash, 
Though  all  that  she  wears  is  some  weeds  round  her  waist  in  a 
sort  of  sash. 

All  the  year  long  at  the  villa,  nothing  to  see  though  you  linger, 

Except  yon  cypress  that  points  like  death's  lean  fifted  fore- 
finger. 

Some  think  fireflies  pretty,  when  they  mix  i'  the  corn  and 
mingle, 

Or  thrid  the  stinking  hemp  till  the  stalks  of  it  seem  atingle. 

Late  August  or  early  September,  the  stunning  cicala  is  shrill, 

And  the  bees  keep  their  tiresome  whine  round  the  resinous 
firs  on  the  hill. 

Enough  of  the  seasons, — I  spare  you  the  months  of  the  fever 
and  chill. 

Ere  you  open  your  eyes  in  the  city,  the  blessed  church-bells 

begin : 

No  sooner  the  bells  leave  off  than  the  diligence  rattles  in: 
You  get  the  pick  of  the  news,  and  it  costs  you  never  a  pin. 
By  and  by  there's  the  travelling  doctor  gives  pills,  lets  blood, 

draws  teeth; 

Or  the  Pulcinello-trumpet  breaks  up  the  market  beneath. 
At  the  post-office  such  a  scene-picture — the  new  play,  piping 

hot! 
And  a  notice  how,  only  this  morning,  three  liberal  thieves 

were  shot. 

Above  it,  behold  the  Archbishop's  most  fatherly  of  rebukes, 
And  beneath,  with  his  crown  and  his  lion,  some  little  new 

law  of  the  Duke's! 

Or  a  sonnet  with  flowery  marge,  to  the  Reverend  Don  So- 
and-so, 
Who   is   Dante,    Boccaccio,    Petrarca,   Saint   Jerome,   and 

Cicero, 
"And  moreover,"  (the  sonnet  goes  rhyming,)  "the  skirts  of 

Saint  Paul  has  reached, 
Having  preached  us  those  six  Lent-lectures  more  unctuous 

than  ever  he  preached." 
Noon  strikes, — here  sweeps  the  procession!  our  Lady  borne 

smiling  and  smart 
With  a  pink  gauze  gown  all  spangles,  and  seven  swords  stuck 

in  her  heart! 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  31 

Bang-whang-whang  goes  the  drum,  tootte-te-tootle  the  fife; 
No  keeping  one's  haunches  still:  it's  the  greatest  pleasure  in 
life. 

But  bless  you,  it's  dear — it's  dear!  fowls,  wine,  at  double  the 

rate. 
They  have  clapped  a  new  tax  upon  salt,  and  what  oil  pays 

passing  the  gate 
It's  a  horror  to  think  of.    And  so,  the  villa  for  me,  not  the 

city! 
Beggars  can  scarcely  be  choosers:  but  still — ah,  the  pity, 

the  pity! 
Look,  two  and  two  go  the  priests,  then  the  monks  with  cowls 

and  sandals, 
And  the  penitents  dressed  in  white  shirts,  a-holding  the 

yellow  candles; 
One,  he  carries  a  flag  up  straight,  and  another  a  cross  with 

handles, 

And  the  Duke's  guard  brings  up  the  rear,  for  the  better  pre- 
vention of  scandals: 

Bang-whang-whang  goes  the  drum,  tootte-te-tootle  the  fife. 
Oh,  a  day  in  the  city-square,  there  is  no  such  pleasure  in  life! 

(1855.) 

A  TOCCATA1  OF  GALUPPI'S 

Oh  Galuppi,8  Baldassare,  this  is  very  sad  to  find! 

I  can  hardly  misconceive  you;  it  would  prove  me  deaf  and 

blind; 
But  although  I  take  your  meaning,  't  is  with  such  a  heavy 

mind! 

Here  you  come  with  your  old  music,  and  here's  all  the  good 

it  brings. 
What,  they  lived  once  thus  at  Venice  where  the  merchants 

were  the  kings, 

1  The  New  English  Dictionary  defines  a  toccata  as  "a  composition 
for  a  keyboard  instrument,  intended  to  exhibit  the  touch  and  tech- 
nique of  the  performer,  and  having  the  air  of  an  improvisation." 

1  Baldassare  Galuppi  (1706-1785)  was  an  Italian  musician,  at  one 
time  organist  of  St.  Mark's  cathedral,  Venice. 


32  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Where  St.  Mark's  is,  where  the  Doges  used  to  wed  the  sea 
with  rings? 

Ay,  because  the  sea's  the  street  there;  and  't  is  arched  by 

.    .    .  what  you  call 
.    .    .  Shylock's  bridge  with  houses  on  it,  where  they  kept 

the  carnival: 
I  was  never  out  of  England — it's  as  if  I  saw  it  all. 

Did  young  people  take  their  pleasure  when  the  sea  was  warm 

in  May? 

Balls  and  masks  begun  at  midnight,  burning  ever  to  mid-day, 
When  they  made  up  fresh  adventures  for  the  morrow,  do 

you  say? 

Was  a  lady  such  a  lady,  cheeks  so  round  and  lips  so  red, — 
On  her  neck  the  small  face  buoyant,  like  a  bell-flower  on  its 

bed, 
O'er  the  breast's  superb  abundance  where  a  man  might 

base  his  head? 

Well,  and  it  was  graceful  of  them — they'd  break  talk  off 

and  afford 
— She,  to  bite  her  mask's  black  velvet — he,  to  finger  on  his 

sword, 
While  you  sat  and  played  Toccatas,  stately  at  the  clavichord? 

What?    Those  lesser  thirds  so  plaintive,  sixths  diminished, 

sigh  on  sigh, 
Told  them  something?     Those  suspensions,  those  solutions — 

"Must  we  die?" 
Those  commiserating  sevenths — "Life  might  last!  we  can 

but  try!" 

"Were    you    happy?"— "Yes."— "And    are    you    still    as 

happy?"— "Yes.    And  you?" 
— "Then,  more  kisses!" — "Did  /  stop  them,  when  a  million 

seemed  so  few?" 
Hark,  the  dominant's  persistence  till  it  must  be  answered  to! 

So,  an  octave  struck  the  answer.     Oh,  they  praised  you, 
I  dare  sav! 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  33 

"Brave  Galuppi!  that  was  music!  good  alike  at  grave  and  gay ! 
I  can  always  leave  off  talking  when  I  hear  a  master  play!" 

Then  they  left  you  for  their  pleasure :  till  in  due  time,  one  by 

one, 
Some  with  lives  that  came  to  nothing,  some  with  deeds  as 

well  undone, 

Death  stepped  tacitly  and  took  them  where  they  never  see 
the  sun. 

But  when  I  sit  down  to  reason,  think  to  take  my  stand  nor 

swerve, 
While  I  triumph  o'er  a  secret  wrung  from  nature's  close 

reserve, 
In  you  come  with  your  cold  music  till  I  creep  through  every 

nerve. 

Yes,  you,  like  a  ghostly  cricket,  creaking  where  a  house 
was  burned: 

"Dust  and  ashes,  dead  and  done  with,  Venice  spent  what 
Venice  earned. 

The  soul,  doubtless,  is  immortal — where  a  soul  can  be  dis- 
cerned. 

"Yours  for  instance:  you  know  physics,  something  of  geology, 
Mathematics  are  your   pastime;   souls  shall   rise   in  their 

degree; 
Butterflies  may  dread  extinction, — you'll  not  die,  it  cannot 

be! 

"As  for  Venice  and  her  people,  merely  born  to  bloom  and 

drop, 
Here  on  earth  they  bore  their  fruitage,  mirth  and  folly  were 

the  crop: 
What  of  soul  was  left,  I  wonder,  when  the  kissing  had  to  stop? 

"Dust  and  ashes!"    So  you  creak  it,  and  I  want  the  heart  to 

scold. 
Dear  dead  women,  with  such  hair,  too — what's  become  of 

all  the  gold 
Used  to  hang  and  brush  their  bosoms?     I  feel  chilly  and 

grown  old. 

(1855.) 


34  ROBERT  BROWNING 

"DE  GUSTIBUS— "i 

Your  ghost  will  walk,  you  lover  of  trees, 

(If  our  loves  remain) 

In  an  English  lane, 

By  a  cornfield-side  a-flutter  with  poppies. 
Hark,  those  two  in  the  hazel  coppice — 
A  boy  and  a  girl,  if  the  good  fates  please, 

Making  love,  say, — 

The  happier  they! 

Draw  yourself  up  from  the  light  of  the  moon, 
And  let  them  pass,  as  they  will  too  soon, 

With  the  beanflowers'  boon, 

And  the  blackbird's  tune, 

And  May,  and  June! 

What  I  love  best  in  all  the  world 
Is  a  castle,  precipice-encurled, 
In  a  gash  of  the  wind-grieved  Apennine. 
Or  look  for  me,  old  fellow  of  mine, 
(If  I  get  my  head  from  out  the  mouth 
0'  the  grave,  and  loose  my  spirit's  bands, 
And  come  again  to  the  land  of  lands) — 
In  a  sea-side  house  to  the  farther  South, 
Where  the  baked  cicala  dies  of  drouth, 
And  one  sharp  tree — 't  is  a  cypress — stands, 
By  the  many  hundred  years  red-rusted, 
Rough  iron-spiked,  ripe  fruit-o'ercrusted, 
My  sentinel  to  guard  the  sands 
To  the  water's  edge.     For,  what  expands 
Before  the  house,  but  the  great  opaque 
Blue  breadth  of  sea  without  a  break? 
While,  in  the  house,  forever  crumbles 
Some  fragment  of  the  frescoed  walls, 
From  blisters  where  a  scorpion  sprawls. 
A  girl  bare-footed  brings,  and  tumbles 
Down  on  the  pavement,  green-flesh  melons, 
And  says  there's  news  to-day — the  king 
Was  shot  at,  touched  in  the  liver-wing,2 

1  The  complete  proverb  is  "De  gustibus  non  disputandum"  (There 
is  no  accounting  for  tastes). 
5  Right  arm. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  35 

Goes  with  his  Bourbon  arm  in  a  sling: 

— She  hopes  they  have  not  caught  the  felons. 

Italy,  my  Italy! 

Queen  Mary's  saying  serves  for  me — 

(When  fortune's  malice 

Lost  her,  Calais) 
Open  my  heart  and  you  will  see 
Graved  inside  of  it,  "Italy." 
Such  lovers  old  are  I  and  she: 
So  it  always  was,  so  shall  ever  be! 

(1855.) 


HOME-THOUGHTS,   FROM  ABROAD 

Oh,  to  be  in  England 

Now  that  April's  there, 

And  whoever  wakes  in  England 

Sees,  some  morning,  unaware, 

That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brush-wood  sheaf 

Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 

While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 

In  England — now! 

And  after  April,  when  May  follows, 

And  the  whitethroat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows! 

Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in  the  hedge 

Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 

Blossoms  and  dewdrops — at  the  bent  spray's  edge — 

That's  the  wise  thrush;  he  sings  each  song  twice  over, 

Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 

The  first  fine  careless  rapture! 

And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary  dew, 

All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 

The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower 

— Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon-flower  1 


36 


Nobly,  nobly  Cape  Saint  Vincent1  to  the  Northwest   died 

away; 

Sunset  ran,  one  glorious  blood-red,  reeking  into  Cadiz  Bay;1 
Bluish  'mid  the  burning  water,  full  in  face  Trafalgar1  lay; 
In  the  dimmest  Northeast  distance  dawned  Gibraltar  grand 

and  gray; 
"Here  and  here  did  England  help  me:  how  can  I  help  Eng- 

land?"— say, 
Whoso  turns  as  I,  this  evening,  turn  to  God  to  praise  and 

pray, 
While  Jove's  planet  rises  yonder,  silent  over  Africa. 

(1845.) 

SAUL' 


Said  Abner,  "At  last  thoti  art  come!    Ere  I  tell,  ere  thov 

speak, 
Kiss  my  cheek,  wish  me  well!"     Then  I  wished  it,  and  did 

kiss  his  cheek. 
And  he:  "Since  the  King,  O  my  friend,  for  thy  countenance 

sent, 

Neither  drunken  nor  eaten  have  we;  nor  until  from  his  tent 
Thou  return  with  the  joyful  assurance  the  King  liveth  yet, 
Shall  our  lip  with  the  honey  be  bright,  with  the  water  be  wet, 
For  out  of  the  black  mid-tent's  silence,  a  space  of  three  days, 
Not  a  sound  hath  escaped  to  thy  servants,  of  prayer  nor  of 

praise, 

To  betoken  that  Saul  and  the  Spirit  have  ended  their  strife, 
And  that,  faint  in  his  triumph,  the  monarch  sinks  back  upon 

life. 

ii 

"Yet  now  my  heart  leaps,  0  beloved!     God's  child  with  his 

dew 
On  thy  gracious  gold  hair,  and  those  lilies  still  living  and  blue 

1  Places  associated  with  British  naval  victories. 

»  See  I  Samuel  16:14-23  for  the  foundation  of  this  poem. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  37 

Just  broken  to  twine  round  thy  harp-strings,  as  if  no  wild 

heat 
Were  now  raging  to  torture  the  desert! " 

in 

Then  I,  as  was  meet, 

Knelt  down  to  the  God  of  my  fathers,  and  rose  on  my  feet, 
And  ran  o'er  the  sand  burnt  to  powder.  The  tent  was  un- 

looped ; 

I  pulled  up  the  spear  that  obstructed,  and  under  I  stooped; 
Hands  and  knees  on  the  slippery  grass-patch,  all  withered  and 

gone, 

That  extends  to  the  second  enclosure,  I  groped  my  way  on 
Till  I  felt  where  the  foldskirts  fly  open.  Then,  once  more  I 

prayed. 

And  opened  the  foldskirts  and  entered,  and  was  not  afraid 
But  spoke,  "Here  is  David,  thy  servant!"  And  no  voice 

replied. 
At  the  first  I  saw  naught  but  the  blackness:  but  soon  I 

descried 
A  something  more  black  than  the  blackness — the  vast,  the 

upright 

Main  prop  which  sustains  the  pavilion:  and  slow  into  sight 
Grew  a  figure  against  it,  gigantic   and  blackest  of  all. 
Then  a  sunbeam,  that  burst  through  the  tent-roof,  showed 

Saul. 

IV 

He  stood  as  erect  as  that  tent-prop,  both  arms  stretched  out 

wide 
On  the  great  cross-support  in  the  centre,  that  goes  to  each 

side; 

He  relaxed  not  a  muscle,  but  hung  there  as,  caught  in  his  pangs 
And  waiting  his  change,  the  king-serpent  all  heavily  hangs, 
Far  away  from  his  kind,  in  the  pine,  till  deliverance  come 
With  the  spring-time, — so  agonized  Saul,  drear  and  stark, 

blind  and  dumb. 


Then  I  tuned  my  harp, — took  off  the  lilies  wet  wine  round 
its  chords 


38  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Lest  they  snap   'neath  the  stress  of  the  noontide — those 

sunbeams  like  swords! 
And  I  first  played  the  tune  all  our  sheep  know,  as,  one  after 

one, 

So  docile  they  come  to  the  pen-door  till  folding  be  done. 
They  are  white  and  untorn  by  the  bushes,  for,  lo,  they 

have  fed 
Where  the  long  grasses  stifle  the  water  within  the  stream's 

bed; 

And  now  one  after  one  seeks  its  lodging,  as  star  follows  star 
Into  eve  and  the  blue  far  above  us, — so  blue  and  so  far! 

VI 

— Then  the  tune  for  which  quails  on  the  cornland  will  each 

leave  his  mate 

To  fly  after  the  player;  then,  what  makes  the  crickets  elate 
Till  for  boldness  they  fight  one  another;  and  then,  what  has 

weight 

To  set  the  quick  jerboa  a-musing  outside  his  sand  house — 
There  are  none  such  as  he  for  a  wonder,  half  bird  and  half 

mouse! 
God  made  all  the  creatures  and  gave  them  our  love  and  our 

fear, 
To  give  sign,  we  and  they  are  his  children,  one  family  here. 

VII 

Then  I  played  the  help-tune  of  our  reapers,  their  wine-song, 

when  hand 
Grasps  at  hand,  eye  lights  eye  in  good  friendship,  and  great 

hearts  expand 
And  grow  one  in  the  sense  of  this  world's  life. — And  then,  the 

last  song 
When  the  dead  man  is  praised  on  his  journey — "Bear,  bear 

him  along, 
With  his  few  faults  shut  up  like  dead  flowerets!    Are  balm 

seeds  not  here 
To  console  us?     The  land  has  none  left  such  as  he  on  the 

bier. 
Oh,  would  we  might  keep  thee,  my  brother!" — And  then,  the 

glaxl  chaunt 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  39 

Of  the  marriage, — first  go  the  young  maidens,  next,  she  whom 

we  vaunt 
As  the  beauty,  the  pride  of  our  dwelling. — And  then,  the 

great  march 

Wherein  man  runs  to  man  to  assist  him  and  buttress  an  arch 
Naught  can  break;  who  shall  harm  them,  our  friends?  Then, 

the  chorus  intoned 

As  the  Levites  go  up  to  the  altar  in  glory  enthroned. 
But  I  stopped  here:  for  here  in  the  darkness  Saul  groaned. 

VIII 

And  I  paused,  held  my  breath  in  such  silence,  and  listened 

apart; 
And  the  tent  shook,  for  mighty  Saul  shuddered:  and  sparkles 

'gan  dart 

From  the  jewels  that  woke  in  his  turban,  at  once  with  a  start, 
All  its  lordly  male-sapphires,  and  rubies  courageous  at  heart. 
So  the  head:  but  the  body  still  moved  not,  still  hung  there 

erect. 

And  I  bent  once  again  to  my  playing,  pursued  it  unchecked, 
As  I  sang: — 

IX 

"Oh,  our  manhood's  prime  vigor!    No  spirit  feels  waste, 
Not  a  muscle  is  stopped  in  its  playing  nor  sinew  unbraced. 
Oh,  the  wild  joys  of  living!  the  leaping  from  rock  up  to  rock, 
The  strong  rending  of  boughs  from  the  fir-tree,  the  cool  silver 

shock 

Of  the  plunge  in  a  pool's  living  water,  the  hunt  of  the  bear, 
And  the  sultriness  showing  the  lion  is  couched  in  his  lair. 
And  the  meal,  the  rich  dates  yellowed  over  with  gold  dust 

divine, 
And  the  locust-flesh  steeped  in  the  pitcher,  the  full  draught 

of  wine, 

And  the  sleep  in  the  dried  river-channel  where  bulrushes  tell 
That  the  water  was  wont  to  go  warbling  so  softly  and  well. 
How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere  living!  how  fit  to  employ 
All  the  heart  and  the  soul  and  the  senses  forever  in  joy! 
Hast  thou  loved  the  white  locks  of  thy  father,  whose  sword 

thou  didst  guard 


40  ROBERT  BROWNING 

When  he  trusted  thee  forth  with  the  armies,  for  glorious 

reward? 
Didst  thou  see  the  thin  hands  of  thy  mother,  held  up  as  men 

sung 

The  low  song  of  the  nearly-departed,  and  hear  her  faint  tongue 
Joining  in  while  it  could  to  the  witness,  '  Let  one  more  attest, 
I  have  lived,  seen  God's  hand  through  a  life-time,  and  all  was 

for  best'? 
Then  they  sung  through  their  tears  in  strong  triumph,  not 

much,  but  the  rest. 
And  thy  brothers,  the  help  and  the  contest,  the  working 

whence  grew 
Such   result   as,    from   seething    grape-bundles,    the   spirit 

strained  true: 
And  the  friends  of  thy  boyhood — that  boyhood  of  wonder 

and  hope, 
Present  promise  and  wealth  of  the  future  beyond  the  eye's 

scope, — 

Till  lo,  thou  art  grown  to  a  monarch;  a  people  is  thine; 
And  all  gifts,  which  the  world  offers  singly,  on  one  head 

combine! 
On  one  head,  all  the  beauty  and  strength,  love  and  rage 

(like  the  throe 

That,  a-work  in  the  rock,  helps  its  labor  and  lets  the  gold  go) 
High  ambition  and  deeds  which  surpass  it,  fame  crowning 

them, — all 
Brought  to  blaze  on  the  head  of  one  creature — King  Saul!" 


And  lo,  with  that  leap  of  my  spirit, — heart,  hand,  harp  and 

voice, 

Each  lifting  Saul's  name  out  of  sorrow,  each  bidding  rejoice 
Saul's  fame  in  the  light  it  was  made  for — as  when,  dare  I  say, 
The  Lord's  army,  in  rapture  of  service,  strains  through  its 

array, 
And  upsoareth  the  cherubim-chariot — "Saul!"  cried  I,  and 

stopped, 
And  waited  the  thing  that  should  follow.    Then  Saul,  who 

hung  propped 
By  the  tent's  cross-support  in  the  centre,  was  struck  by  his 

name. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  41 

Have  ye  seen  when  Spring's  arrowy  summons  goes  right  to 

the  aim, 
And  some  mountain,  the  last  to  withstand  her,  that  held 

(he  alone, 
While  the  vale  laughed  in  freedom  and  flowers)  on  a  broad 

bust  of  stone 
A  year's  snow  bound  about  for  a  breastplate, — leaves  grasp 

of  the  sheet? 
Fold  on  fold  all  at  once  it  crowds  thunderously  down  to  his 

feet, 

And  there  fronts  you,  stark,  black,  but  alive  yet,  your  moun- 
tain of  old, 

With  his  rents,  the  successive  bequeathings  of  ages  untold — 
Yea,  each  harm  got  in  fighting  your  battles,  each  furrow  and 

scar 
Of  his  head  thrust   'twixt  you  and  the  tempest — all  hail, 

there  they  are! 
— Now  again  to  be  softened  with  verdure,  again  hold  the 

nest 
Of  the  dove,  tempt  the  goat  and  its  young  to  the  green  on  his 

crest 
For  their  food  in  the  ardors  of  summer.    One  long  shudder 

thrilled 

All  the  tent  till  the  very  air  tingled,  then  sank  and  was  stilled 
At  the  King's  self  left  standing  before  me,  released  and  aware. 
What  was  gone,  what  remained?  All  to  traverse  'twixt 

hope  and  despair, 
Death  was  past,  life  not  come:  so  he  waited.     Awhile  his 

right  hand 
Held  the  brow,  helped  the  eyes  left  too  vacant  forthwith  to 

remand 
To  their  place  what  new  objects  should  enter:  'twas  Saul  as 

before. 
I  looked  up  and  dared  gaze  at  those  eyes,  nor  was  hurt  any 

more 
Than  by  slow  pallid  sunsets  in  autumn,  ye  watch  from  the 

shore, 

At  their  sad  level  gaze  o'er  the  ocean — a  sun's  slow  decline 
Over  hills  which,  resolved  in  stern  silence,  o'erlap  and  entwine 
Base  with  base  to  knit  strength  more  intensely :  so,  arm  folded 

arm 
O'er  the  chest  whose  slow  heavings  subsided. 


42  ROBERT  BROWNING 

XI 

What  spell  or  what  charm, 
(For  awhile  there  was  trouble  within  me,)  what  next  should 

I  urge 
To  sustain  him  where  song  had  restored  him? — Song  filled 

to  the  verge 

His  cup  with  the  wine  of  this  life,  pressing  all  that  it  yields 
Of  mere  fruitage,  the  strength  and  the  beauty;  beyond,  on 

what  fields, 

Glean  a  vintage  more  potent  and  perfect  to  brighten  the  eye 
And  bring  blood  to  the  lip,  and  commend  them  the  cup  they 

put  by? 
He  saith,  "It  is  good";  still  he  drinks  not:  he  lets  me  praise 

life, 
Gives  assent,  yet  would  die  for  his  own  part. 

xir 

Then  fancies  grew  rife 
Which  had  come  long  ago  on  the  pasture,  when  round  me 

the  sheep 

Fed  in  silence — above,  the  one  eagle  wheeled  slow  as  in  sleep; 
And  I  lay  in  my  hollow  and  mused  on  the  world  that  might 

lie 
'Neath  his  ken,  though  I  saw  but  the  strip  'twixt  the  hill  and 

the  sky; 
And  I  laughed — "Since  my  days  are  ordained  to  be  passed 

with  rny  flocks. 
Let  me  people  at  least,  with  my  fancies,  the  plains  and  the 

rocks. 

Dream  the  life  I  am  never  to  mix  with,  and  image  the  show 
Of  mankind  as  they  live  in   those   fashions   I   hardly  shall 

know! 
Schemes  of  life,  its  best  rules  and  right  uses,  the  courage  that 

gains, 
And  the  prudence  that  keeps  what  men  strive  for."     And 

now  these  old  trains 
Of  vague  thought  came  again;  I  grew  surer;  so,  once  more  the 

string 
Of  my  harp  made  response  to  my  spirit,  as  thus — 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  43 

XIII 

"Yea,  my  King," 
I  began — "thou  dost  well  in  rejecting  mere  comforts  that 

spring 
From  the  mere  mortal  life  held  in  common  by  man  and  by 

brute: 
In  our  flesh  grows  the  branch  of  this  life,  in  our  soul  it  bears 

fruit. 
Thou  hast  marked  the  slow  rise  of  the  tree, — how  its  stem 

trembled  first 
Till  it  passed  the  kid's  lip,  the  stag's  antler;  then  safely 

outburst 
The  fan-branches  all  round;  and  thou  mindest  when  these 

too,  in  turn, 
Broke  a-bloom  and  the  palm-tree  seemed  perfect:  yet  more 

was  to  learn, 
E'en  the  good   that   comes  in   with   the   palm-fruit.     Our 

dates  shall  we  slight, 
When  their  juice  brings  a  cure  for  all  sorrow?  or  care  for  the 

plight 
Of  the  palm's  self  whose  slow  growth  produced  them?     Not 

so!  stem  and  branch 

Shall  decay,  nor  be  known  in  their  place,  while  the  palm- 
wine  shall  stanch 
Every  wound  of  man's  spirit  in  winter.     I  pour  thee  such 

wine. 

Leave  the  flesh  to  the  fate  it  was  fit  for!  the  spirit  be  thine! 
By  the  spirit,  when  age  shall  o'ercome  thee,  thou  still  shalt 

enjoy 
More  indeed,  than  at  first  when  inconscious,  the  life  of  a 

boy. 
Crush  that  life,  and  behold  its  wine-running!     Each  deed 

thou  hast  done 
Dies,  revives,  goes  to  work  in  the  world;  until  e'en  as  the 

sun 
Looking  down  on  the  earth,  though  clouds  spoil  him,  though 

tempests  efface, 

Can  find  nothing  his  own  deed  produced  not,  must  every- 
where trace 
The  results  of  his  past  summer-prime, — so,  each  ray  of  thy 

will, 


44  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Every  flash  of  thy  passion  and  prowess,  long  over,  shall  thrill 
Thy  whole  people,  the  countless,  with  ardor,  till  they  too 

give  forth 
A  like  cheer  to  their  sons,  who  in  turn,  fill  the  South  and  the 

North 
With  the  radiance  thy  deed  was  the  germ  of.     Carouse  in 

the  past! 

But  the  license  of  age  has  its  limit;  thou  diest  at  last! 
As  the  lion  when  age  dims  his  eyeball,  the  rose  at  her  height, 
So  with  man — so  his  power  and    his  beauty  forever  take 

flight. 
No!     Again  a  long  draught  of  my  soul- wine!     Look  forth 

o'er  the  years! 
Thou  hast  done  now  with  eyes  for  the  actual;  begin  with  the 

seer's! 
Is  Saul  dead?     In  the  depth  of  the  vale  make  his  tomb — 

bid  arise 
A  gray  mountain  of  marble  heaped  four-square,  till,  built  to 

the  skies, 
Let  it  mark  where  the  great  First  King  slumbers:  whose 

fame  would  ye  know? 

Up  above  see  the  rock's  naked  face,  where  the  record  shall  go 
In  great  characters  cut  by  the  scribe, — Such  was  Saul,  so 

he  did; 

With  the  sages  directing  the  work,  by  the  populace  chid, — 
For   not   half,   they'll   affirm,   is   comprised   there!     Which 

fault  to  amend, 
In  the  grove  with  his  kind  grows  the  cedar,  whereon  they 

shall  spend 
(See,    in   tablets   't  is   level   before   them)  their  praise,  and 

record 
With  the  gold  of  the  graver,  Saul's  story, — the  statesman's 

great  word 
Side  by  side  with  the  poet's  sweet  comment.     The  river's 

a-wave 

With  smooth  paper-reeds  grazing  each  other  when  prophet- 
winds  rave: 

So  the  pen  gives  unborn  generations  their  due  arid  their  part 
In  thy  being!     Then,  first  of  the  mighty,  thank  God  that 

thou  art!" 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  45 

XIV 

And   behold   while   I   sang   .    .    .   but   0   Thou   who  didst 

grant  me  that  day, 

And  before  it  not  seldom  has  granted  thy  help  to  essay, 
Carry  on  and  complete  an  adventure, — my  shield  and  my 

sword 
In  that  act  where  my  soul  was  thy  servant,  thy  word  was 

my  word, — 

Still  be  with  me,  who  then  at  the  summit  of  human  endeavor 
And  scaling  the  highest,  man's  thought  could,  gazed  hope- 
less as  ever 

On  the  new  stretch  of  heaven  above  me — till,  mighty  to  save, 
Just  one  lift  of  thy  hand  cleared  that  distance — God's  throne 

from  man's  grave! 

Let  me  tell  out  my  tale  to  its  ending — my  voice  to  my  heart 
Which  can  scarce  dare  believe  in  what  marvels  last  night  I 

took  part, 

As  this  morning  I  gather  the  fragments,  alone  with  my  sheep, 
And  still  fear  lest  the  terrible  glory  evanish  like  sleep! 
For  I  wake  in  the  gray  dewy  covert,  while  Hebron  upheaves 
The  dawn  struggling  with  night  on  his  shoulder,  and  Kidron 

retrieves 
Slow  the  damage  of  yesterday's  sunshine. 

xv 

I  say  then, — my  song 
While  I  sang  thus,  assuring  the  monarch,  and  ever  more 

strong 

Made  a  proffer  of  good  to  console  him — he  slowly  resumed 
His  old  motions   and   habitudes   kingly.     The   right   hand 

replumed 
His  black  locks  to  their  wonted  composure,  adjusted  the 

swathes 
Of  his  turban,  and  see — the  huge  sweat  that  his  countenance 

bathes, 
He  wipes  off  with  the  robe;  and  he  girds  now  his  loins  as  of 

yore, 
And  feels  slow  for  the  armlets  of  price,  with  the  clasp  set 

before. 
He  is  Saul,  ye  remember  in  glory, — ere  error  had  bent 


46  ROBERT  BROWNING 

The  broad  brow  from  the  daily  communion;  and  still,  though 

much  spent 
Be  the  life  and  the  bearing  that  front  you,  the  same,  God  did 

choose, 

To  receive  what  a  man  may  waste,  desecrate,  never  quite  lose. 
So  sank  he  along  by  the  tent-prop  till,  stayed  by  the  pile 
Of  his  armor  and  war--cloak  and  garments,  he  leaned  there 

awhile, 
And  sat  out  my  singing, — one  arm  round  the  tent-prop,  to 

raise 
His  bent  head,  and  the  other  hung  slack — till  I  touched  on 

the  praise 

I  foresaw  from  all  men  in  all  time,  to  the  man  patient  there; 
And  thus  ended,  the  harp  falling  forward.     Then  first  I  was 

'ware 

That  he  sat,  as  I  say,  with  my  head  just  above  his  vast  knees 
Which  were  thrust  out  on  each  side  around  me,  like  oak-roots 

which  please 

To  encircle  a  lamb  when  it  slumbers.     I  looked  up  to  know 
If  the  best  I  could  do  had  brought  solace:  he  spoke  not,  but 

slow 

Lifted  up  the  hand  slack  at  his  side,  till  he  laid  it  with  care 
Soft  and  grave,  but  in  mild  settled  will,  on  my  brow:  through 

my  hair 
The  large  fingers  were  pushed,  and  he  bent  back  my  head, 

with  kind  power — 

All  my  face  back,  intent  to  peruse  it,  as  men  do  a  flower. 
Thus  held  he  me  there  with  his  great  eyes  that  scrutinized 

mine — 
And  oh,  all  my  heart  how  it  loved  him!  but  where  was  the 

sign? 

I  yearned — "Could  I  help  thee,  my  father,  inventing  a  bliss, 
I  would  add,  to  that  life  of  the  past,  both  the  future  and  this; 
I  would  give  thee  new  life  altogether,  as  good,  ages  hence, 
At  this  moment, — had  love  but  the  warrant,  love's  heart  to 

dispense!" 


Then  the  truth  came  upon  me.     No  harp  more — no  song 
more!  outbroke — 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  47 

XVII 

"I  have  gone  the  whole  round  of  creation:  I  saw  and  I  spoke: 
I,  a  work  of  God's  hand  for  that  purpose,  received  in  my 

brain 
And  pronounced  on  the  rest  of  his  handwork — returned  him 

again 

His  creation's  approval  or  censure:  I  spoke  as  I  saw: 
I  report,  as  a  man  may  of  God's  work — all's  love,  yet  all's 

law. 
Now  I  lay  down  the  judgeship  he  lent  me.     Each  faculty 

tasked 
To  perceive  him,  has  gained  an  abyss,  where  a  dewdrop  was 

asked. 
Have  I  knowledge?  confounded  it  shrivels  at  Wisdom  laid 

bare. 
Have  I  forethought?  how  purblind,  how  blank,  to  the  Infinite 

Care! 

Do  I  task  any  faculty  highest,  to  image  success? 
I  but  open  my  eyes, — and  perfection,  no  more  and  no  less, 
In  the  kind  I  imagined,  full-fronts  me,  and  God  is  seen  God 
In  the  star,  in  the  stone,  in  the  flesh,  in  the  soul  and  the  clod. 
And  thus  looking  within  and  around  me,  I  ever  renew 
(With  that  stoop  of  the  soul  which  in  bending  upraises  it  too) 
The    submission    of   man's    nothing-perfect    to    God's    all- 
complete, 

As  by  each  new  obeisance  in  spirit,  I  climb  to  his  feet. 
Yet  with  all  this  abounding  experience,  this  deity  known, 
I  shall  dare  to  discover  some  province,  some  gift  of  my  own. 
There's  a  faculty  pleasant  to  exercise,  hard  to  hoodwink, 
I  am  fain  to  keep  still  in  abeyance,  (I  laugh  as  I  think) 
Lest,  insisting  to  claim  and  parade  in  it,  wot  ye,  I  worst 
E'en  the  Giver  in  one  gift. — Behold,  I  could  love  if  I  durst! 
But  I  sink  the  pretension  as  fearing  a  man  may  o'ertake 
God's  own  speed  in  the  one  way  of  love:  I  abstain  for  love's 

sake. 
— What,  my  soul?  see  thus  far  and  no  farther?  when  doors 

great  and  small, 
Nine-and-ninety  flew  ope  at  our  touch,  should  the  hundredth 

appall? 
In  the  least  things  have  faith,  yet  distrust  in  the  greatest  of 

all? 


48  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Do  I  find  love  so  full  in  my  nature,  God's  ultimate  gift, 
That  I  doubt  his  own  love  can  compete  with  it?    Here,  the 

parts  shift? 
Here,   the   creature   surpass   the   Creator, — the  end,   what 

Began? 

Would  I  fain  in  my  impotent  yearning  do  all  for  this  man, 
And  dare  doubt  he  alone  snail  not  help  him,  who  yet  alone 

can? 
Would  it  ever  have  entered  my  mind,  the  bare  will,  much  less 

power, 

To  bestow  on  this  Saul  what  I  sang  of,  the  marvellous  dower 
Of  the  life  he  was  gifted  and  filled  with?  to  make  such  a  soul, 
Such  a  body,  and  then  such  an  earth  for  insphering  the  whole? 
And  doth  it  not  enter  my  mind  (as  my  warm  tears  attest) 
These  good  things  being  given,  to  go  on,  and  give  one  more, 

the  best? 
Ay,  to  save  and  redeem  and  restore  him,  maintain  at  the 

height 
This    perfection, — succeed    with    life's    day-spring,  death's 

minute  of  night? 

Interpose  at  the  difficult  minute,  snatch  Saul  the  mistake, 
Saul  the  failure,  the  ruin  he  seems  now, — and  bid  him  awake 
From  the  dream,  the  probation,  the  prelude,  to  find  himself 

set 

Clear  and  safe  in  new  light  and  new  life, — a  new  harmony  yet 
To  be  run,   and   continued,   and   ended — who  knows? — or 

endure! 
The  man  taught  enough  by  life's  dream,  of  the  rest  to  make 

sure  ; 

By  the  pain-throb,  triumphantly  winning  intensified  bliss, 
And  the  next  world's  reward  and  repose,  by  the  struggles  in 

this. 

XVIII 

"I  believe  it!  'T  is  thou,  God,  that  givest,  't  is  I  who  receive: 
In  the  first  is  the  last,  in  thy  will  is  my  power  to  believe. 
All's  one  gift:  thou  canst  grant  it  moreover,  as  prompt  to  my 

prayer 

As  I  breathe  out  this  breath,  as  I  open  these  arms  to  the  air. 
From  thy  will  stream  the  worlds,  life  and  nature,  thy  dread 

Sabaoth : 
/  will? — the  mere  atoms  despise  me!     Why  am  I  not  loth 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  49 

To  look  that,  even  that  in  the  face  too?  Why  is  it  I  dare 
Think  but  lightly  of  such  impuissance?  What  stops  my 

despair? 
This; — 't  is  not  what  man  Does  which  exalts  him,  but  what 

man  Would  do! 
See  the  King — I  would  help  him  but  cannot,  the  wishes  fall 

through. 

Could  I  wrestle  to  raise  him  from  sorrow,  grow  poor  to  enrich, 
To  fill  up  his  life,  starve  my  own  out,  I  would — knowing 

which, 
I  know  that  my  service  is  perfect.     Oh,  speak  through  me 

now! 
Would  I  suffer  for  him  that  I  love?     So  wouldst  thou — so 

wilt  thou! 
So   shall    crown   thee   the   topmost,    ineffablest,   uttermost 

crown — 

And  thy  love  fill  infinitude  wholly,  nor  leave  up  nor  down 
One  spot  for  the  creature  to  stand  in!  It  is  by  no  breath, 
Turn  of  eye,  wave  of  hand,  that  salvation  joins  issue  with 

death! 

As  thy  Love  is  discovered  almighty,  almighty  be  proved 
Thy  power,  that  exists  with  and  for  it,  of  being  Beloved! 
He  who  did  most,  shall  bear  most;  the  strongest  shall  stand 

the  most  weak. 
'T  is  the  weakness  in  strength,  that  I  cry  for!  my  flesh,  that 

I  seek 

In  the  Godhead!  I  seek  and  I  find  it.  O  Saul,  it  shall  be 
A  Face  like  my  face  that  receives  thee;  a  Man  like  to  me, 
Thou  shalt  love  and  be  loved  by,  forever:  a  Hand  like  this 

hand 
Shall  throw  open  the  gates  of  new  life  to  thee!     See  the 

Christ  stand!" 

XIX 

I  know  not  too  well  how  I  found  my  way  home  in  the  night. 
There  were  witnesses,  cohorts  about  me,  to  left  and  to  right, 
Angels,  powers,  the  unuttered,  unseen,  the  alive,  the  aware: 
I  repressed,  I  got  through  them  as  hardly,  as  strugglingly 

there, 

As  a  runner  beset  by  the  populace  famished  for  news — 
Life  or  death.  The  whole  earth  was  awakened,  hell  loosed 

with  her  crews; 


50  ROBERT  BROWNING 

And  the  stars  of  night  beat  with  emotion,  and  tingled  and 

shot 
Out  in  fire  the  strong  pain  of  pent  knowledge:  but  I  fainted 

not, 
For  the  Hand  still  impelled  me  at  once  and  supported, 

suppressed 

All  the  tumult,  and  quenched  it  with  quiet,  and  holy  behest, 
Till  the  rapture  was  shut  in  itself,  and  the  earth  sank  to  rest. 
Anon  at  the  dawn,  all  that  trouble  had  withered  from  earth — 
Not  so  much,  but  I  saw  it  die  out  in  the  day's  tender  birth; 
In  the  gathered  intensity  brought  to  the  gray  of  the  hills; 
In  the  shuddering  forests'  held  breath;  in  the  sudden  wind- 
thrills; 
In  the  startled  wild  beasts  that  bore  off,  each  with  eyes 

sidling  still 
Though  averted  with  wonder  and  dread;  in  the  birds  stiff 

and  chill 
That  rose  heavily,  as  I  approached  them,  made  stupid  with 

awe: 

E'en  the  serpent  that  slid  away  silent, — he  felt  the  new  law. 
The  same  stared  in  the  white  humid  faces  upturned  by  the 

flowers ; 
The  same  worked  in  the  heart  of  the  cedar  and  moved  the 

vine-bowers: 
And  the  little  brooks  witnessing  murmured,    persistent  and 

low, 
With  their  obstinate,  all  but  hushed  voices — "E'en  so,  it 

is  so!" 

(1845.) 

MY  STAR 

All  that  I  know 

Of  a  certain  star 
Is,  it  can  throw 

(Like  the  angled  spar) 
Now  a  dart  of  red, 

Now  a  dart  of  blue ; 
Till  my  friends  have  said 

They  would  fain  see,  too, 
My  star  that  dartles  the  red  and  the  blue! 
Then  it  stops  like  a  bird;  like  a  flower,  hangs  furled: 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  51 

They  must  solace  themselves  with  the  Saturn  above  it. 
What  matter  to  me  if  their  star  is  a  world? 
Mine  has  opened  its  soul  to  me;  therefore  I  love  it. 

(1855.) 


ANY  WIFE  TO  ANY  HUSBAND 

My  love,  this  is  the  bitterest,  that  thou — 
Who  art  all  truth,  and  who  dost  love  me  now 

As  thine  eyes  say,  as  thy  voice  breaks  to  say — 
Shouldst  love  so  truly,  and  couldst  love  me  still 
A  whole  long  life  through,  had  but  love  its  will, 

Would  death  that  leads  me  from  thee  brook  delay. 

I  have  but  to  be  by  thee,  and  thy  hand 
Will  never  let  mine  go,  nor  heart  withstand 

The  beating  of  my  heart  to  reach  its  place. 
When  shall  I  look  for  thee  and  feel  thee  gone? 
When  cry  for  the  old  comfort  and  find  none? 

Never,  I  know!    Thy  soul  is  in  thy  face. 

Oh,  I  should  fade — 'tis  willed  so!  Might  I  save, 
Gladly  I  would,  whatever  beauty  gave 

Joy  to  thy  sense,  for  that  was  precious  too. 
It  is  not  to  be  granted.    But  the  soul 
Whence  the  love  comes,  all  ravage  leaves  that  whole; 

Vainly  the  flesh  fades;  soul  makes  all  things  new. 

It  would  not  be  because  my  eye  grew  dim 

Thou  couldst  not  find  the  love  there,  thanks  to  Him 

Who  never  is  dishonoured  in  the  spark 
He  gave  us  from  his  fire  of  fires,  and  bade 
Remember  whence  it  sprang,  nor  be  afraid 

While  that  burns  on,  though  all  the  rest  grow  dark. 

So,  how  thou  wouldst  be  perfect,  white  and  clean 
Outside  as  inside,  soul  and  soul's  demesne 

Alike,  this  body  given  to  show  it  by! 
Oh,  three-parts  through  the  worst  of  life's  abyss, 
What  plaudits  from  the  next  world  after  this, 

Couldst  thou  repeat  a  stroke  and  gain  the  sky! 


52  ROBERT  BROWNING 

And  is  it  not  the  bitterer  to  think 

That,  disengage  our  hands  and  thou  wilt  sink 

Although  thy  love  was  love  in  very  deed? 
I  know  that  nature!    Pass  a  festive  day, 
Thou  dost  not  throw  its  relic-flower  away 

Nor  bid  its  music's  loitering  echo  speed. 

Thou  let'st  the  stranger's  glove  lie  where  it  fell; 
If  old  things  remain  old  things  all  is  well, 

For  thou  art  grateful  as  becomes  man  best: 
And  hadst  thou  only  heard  me  play  one  tune, 
Or  viewed  me  from  a  window,  not  so  soon 

With  thee  would  such  things  fade  as  with  the  rest. 

I  seem  to  see!    We  meet  and  part;  'tis  brief; 
The  book  I  opened  keeps  a  folded  leaf, 

The  very  chair  I  sat  on,  breaks  the  rank; 
That  is  a  portrait  of  me  on  the  wall — 
Three  lines,  my  face  comes  at  so  slight  a  call: 

And  for  all  this,  one  little  hour  to  thank! 

But  now,  because  the  hour  through  years  was  fixed, 
Because  our  inmost  beings  met  and  mixed, 

Because  thou  once  hast  loved  me — wilt  thou  dare 
Say  to  thy  soul  and  Who  may  list  beside, 
"Therefore  she  is  immortally  my  bride; 

Chance  cannot  change  my  love,  nor  time  impair. 

"So,  what  if  in  the  dusk  of  life  that's  left, 
I,  a  tired  traveller  of  my  sun  bereft, 

Look  from  my  path  when,  mimicking  the  same, 
The  fire-fly  glimpses  past  me,  come  and  gone? 
— Where  was  it  till  the  sunset?  where  anon 

It  will  be  at  the  sunrise!  what's  to  blame?" 

Is  it  so  helpful  to  thee?     Canst  thou  take 
The  mimic  up,  nor,  for  the  true  thing's  sake, 

Put  gently  by  such  efforts  at  a  beam? 
Is  the  remainder  of  the  way  so  long 
Thou  need'st  the  little  solace,  thou  the  strong? 

Watch  out  thy  watch,  let  weak  ones  doze  and  dream! 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  53 

— Ah,  but  the  fresher  faces!     "Is  it  true," 
Thou'lt  ask,  "some  eyes  are  beautiful  and  new? 

Some  hair, — how  can  one  choose  but  grasp  such  wealth? 
And  if  a  man  would  press  his  lips  to  lips 
Fresh  as  the  wilding  hedge-rose-cup  there  slips 

The  dew-drop  out  of,  must  it  be  by  stealth? 

"It  cannot  change  the  love  still  kept  for  Her, 
More  than  if  such  a  picture  I  prefer 

Passing  a  day  with,  to  a  room's  bare  side: 
The  painted  form  takes  nothing  she  possessed, 
Yet,  while  the  Titian's  Venus  lies  at  rest, 

A  man  looks.    Once  more,  what  is  there  to  chide?  " 

So  must  I  see,  from  where  I  sit  and  watch, 
My  own  self  sell  myself,  my  hand  attach 

Its  warrant  to  the  very  thefts  from  me — 
Thy  singleness  of  soul  that  made  me  proud, 
Thy  purity  of  heart  I  loved  aloud, 

Thy  man's-truth  I  was  bold  to  bid  God  see! 

Love  so,  then,  if  thou  wilt!    Give  all  thou  canst 
Away  to  the  new  faces — disentranced, 

(Say  it  and  think  it)  obdurate  no  more: 
Re-issue  looks  and  words  from  the  old  mint, 
Pass  them  afresh,  no  matter  whose  the  print 

Image  and  superscription  once  they  bore! 

Re-coin  thyself  and  give  it  them  to  spend, — 
It  all  comes  to  the  same  thing  at  the  end, 

Since  mine  thou  wast,  mine  art  and  mine  shalt  be, 
Faithful  or  faithless,  sealing  up  the  sum 
Or  lavish  of  my  treasure,  thou  must  come 

Back  to  the  heart's  place  here  I  keep  for  thee! 

Only,  why  should  it  be  with  stain  at  all? 
Why  must  I,  'twixt  the  leaves  of  coronal, 

Put  any  kiss  of  pardon  on  thy  brow? 
Why  need  the  other  women  know  so  much, 
And  talk  together,  "Such  the  look  and  such 

The  smile  he  used  to  love  with,  then  as  now!" 


54  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Might  I  die  last  and  show  thee!    Should  I  find 
Such  hardship  in  the  few  years  left  behind, 

If  free  to  take  and  light  my  lamp,  and  go 
Into  thy  tomb,  and  shut  the  door  and  sit, 
Seeing  thy  face  on  those  four  sides  of  it 

The  better  that  they  are  so  blank,  I  know! 

Why,  time  was  what  I  wanted,  to  turn  o'er 
Within  my  mind  each  look,  get  more  and  more 

By  heart  each  word,  too  much  to  learn  at  first; 
And  join  thee  all  the  fitter  for  the  pause 
'Neath  the  low  doorway's  lintel.    That  were  cause 

For  lingering,  though  thou  calledst,  if  I  durst! 

And  yet  thou  art  the  nobler  of  us  two : 

What  dare  I  dream  of,  that  thou  canst  not  do, 

Outstripping  my  ten  small  steps  with  one  stride? 
I'll  say  then,  here's  a  trial  and  a  task — 
Is  it  to  bear? — if  easy,  I'll  not  ask: 

Though  love  fail,  I  can  trust  on  in  thy  pride. 

Pride?— when  those  eyes  forestall  the  life  behind 
The  death  I  have  to  go  through! — when  I  find, 

Now  that  I  want  thy  help  most,  all  of  thee! 
What  did  I  fear?  Thy  love  shall  hold  me  fast 
Until  the  little  minute's  sleep  is  past 

And  I  wake  saved. — And  yet  it  will  not  be! 

(1855.) 

TWO   IX  THE   CAMPAGNA 

I  wonder  do  you  feel  to-day 

As  I  have  felt  since,  hand  in  hand, 

We  sat  down  on  the  grass,  to  stray 
In  spirit  better  through  the  land, 

This  morn  of  Rome  and  May? 

For  me,  I  touched  a  thought,  I  know, 

Has  tantalized  me  many  times, 
(Like  turns  of  thread  the  spiders  throw 

Mocking  across  our  path)  for  rhymes 
To  catch  at  and  let  go. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  55 

Help  me  to  hold  it!    First  it  left 

The  yellowing  fennel,  run  to  seed 
There,  branching  from  the  brickwork's  cleft, 

Some  old  tomb's  ruin:  yonder  weed 
Took  up  the  floating  weft, 

Where  one  small  orange  cup  amassed 

Five  beetles, — blind  and  green  they  grope 

Among  the  honey-meal:  and  last, 
Everywhere  on  the  grassy  slope 

I  traced  it.     Hold  it  fast! 

The  champaign  with  its  endless  fleece 

Of  feathery  grasses  everywhere! 
Silence  and  passion,  joy  and  peace, 

An  everlasting  wash  of  air — 
Rome's  ghost  since  her  decease. 

Such  life  here,  through  such  lengths  of  hours, 

Such  miracles  performed  in  play, 
Such  primal  naked  forms  of  flowers, 

Such  letting  nature  have  her  way 
While  heaven  looks  from  its  towers! 

How  say  you?     Let  us,  O  my  dove, 

Let  us  be  unashamed  of  soul, 
As  earth  lies  bare  to  heaven  above! 

How  is  it  under  our  control 
To  love  or  not  to  love? 

I  would  that  you  were  all  to  me, 

You  that  are  just  so  much,  no  more. 
Nor  yours  nor  mine,  nor  slave  nor  free! 

Where  does  the  fault  lie?    What  the  core 
O'  the  wound,  since  wound  must  be? 

I  would  I  could  adopt  your  will, 

See  with  your  eyes,  and  set  my  heart 
Beating  by  yours,  and  drink  my  fill 

At  your  soul's  springs, — your  part  my  part 
In  life,  for  good  and  ill. 


56  ROBERT  BROWNING 

No.     I  yearn  upward,  touch  you  close, 
Then  stand  away.    I  kiss  your  cheek, 

Catch  your  soul's  warmth, — I  pluck  the  rose 
And  love  it  more  than  tongue  can  speak — 

Then  the  good  minute  goes. 

Already  how  am  I  so  far 

Out  of  that  minute?     Must  I  go 
Still  like  the  thistle-ball,  no  bar, 

Onward,  whenever  light  winds  blow, 
Fixed  by  no  friendly  star? 

Just  when  I  seemed  about  to  learn! 

Where  is  the  thread  now?    Off  again! 
The  old  trick!    Only  I  discern — 

Infinite  passion,  and  the  pain 
Of  finite  hearts  that  yearn. 

(1855.) 

MISCONCEPTIONS 


This  is  a  spray  the  Bird  clung  to, 

Making  it  blossom  with  pleasure, 
Ere  the  high  tree-top  she  sprung  to, 

Fit  for  her  nest  and  her  treasure. 

Oh,  what  a  hope  beyond  measure 
Was  the  poor  spray's,  which  the  flying  feet  hung  to, — 
So  to  be  singled  out,  built  in,  and  sung  to! 

This  is  a  heart  the  Queen  leant  on, 

Thrilled  in  a  minute  erratic, 
Ere  the  true  bosom  she  bent  on, 

Meet  for  love's  regal  dalmatic. 

Oh,  what  a  fancy  ecstatic 

Was  the  poor  heart's,  ere  the  wanderer  went  on — 
Love  to  be  saved  for  it,  proffered  to,  spent  on! 

(1855.) 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  57 

ONE  WAY  OF  LOVE 

All  June  I  bound  the  rose  in  sheaves. 
Now,  rose  by  rose,  I  strip  the  leaves 
And  strew  them  where  Pauline  may  pass. 
She  will  not  turn  aside?    Alas! 
Let  them  lie.     Suppose  they  die? 
The  chance  was  they  might  take  her  eye. 

How  many  a  month  I  strove  to  suit 
These  stubborn  fingers  to  the  lute! 
To-day  I  venture  all  I  know. 
She  will  not  hear  my  music?    So! 
Break  the  string;  fold  music's  wing: 
Suppose  Pauline  had  bade  me  sing! 

My  whole  life  long  I  learned  to  love. 
This  hour  my  utmost  art  I  prove 
And  speak  my  passion — heaven  or  hell? 
She  will  not  give  me  heaven?     'Tis  well! 
Lose  who  may — I  still  can  say, 
Those  who  win  heaven,  blest  are  they! 

(1855.) 

'  RESPECTABILITY 

Dear,  had  the  world  in  its  caprice 

Deigned  to  proclaim  "I  know  you  both, 

Have  recognized  your  plighted  troth, 
Am  sponsor  for  you:  live  in  peace !"- 
How  many  precious  months  and  years 

Of  youth  had  passed,  that  speed  so  fast, 

Before  we  found  it  out  at  last, 
The  world,  and  what  it  fears? 

How  much  of  priceless  life  were  spent 

With  men  that  every  virtue  decks, 

And  women  models  of  their  sex, 
Society's  true  ornament, — 
Ere  we  dared  wander,  nights  like  this, 

Thro'  wind  and  ram,  and  watch  the  Seine, 


58  ROBERT  BROWNING 

And  feel  the  Boulevart  break  again 
To  warmth  and  light  and  bliss? 

I  know!  the  world  proscribes  not  love; 
Allows  my  finger  to  caress 
Your  lips'  contour  and  downiness, 

Provided  it  supply  a  glove. 

The  world's  good  word! — the  Institute! 
Guizot  receives  Montalembert!1 
Eh?  down  the  court  three  lampions  flare: 

Put  forward  your  best  foot! 

(1855.) 


LOVE  IN  A  LIFE 

Room  after  room, 

I  hunt  the  house  through 

We  inhabit  together. 

Heart,  fear  nothing,  for,  heart,  thou  shalt  find  her — 

Next  time,  herself! — not  the  trouble  behind  her 

Left  in  the  curtain,  the  couch's  perfume! 

As  she  brushed  it,  the  cornice- wreath  blossomed  anew: 

Yon  looking-glass  gleamed  at  the  wave  of  her  feather. 

Yet  the  day  wears, 

And  door  succeeds  door; 

I  try  the  fresh  fortune — 

Range  the  wide  house  from  the  wing  to  the  centre. 

Still  the  same  chance!  she  goes  out  as  I  enter. 

Spend  my  whole  day  in  the  quest, — who  cares? 

But  't  is  twilight,  you  see, — with  such  suites  to  explore, 

Such  closets  to  search,  such  alcoves  to  importune! 


LIFE  IN  A  LOVE 
Escape  me? 
Never — 
Beloved! 

1  Famous   nineteenth   century  French   politicians  of  strongly  dif- 
fering views. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  59 

While  I  am  I,  and  you  are  you, 

So  long  as  the  world  contains  us  both, 

Me  the  loving  and  you  the  loth, 
While  the  one  eludes,  must  the  other  pursue. 
My  life  is  a  fault  at  last,  I  fear: 

It  seems  too  much  like  a  fate,  indeed! 

Though  I  do  my  best  I  shall  scarce  succeed. 
But  what  if  I  fail  of  my  purpose  here? 
It  is  but  to  keep  the  nerves  at  strain, 

To  dry  one's  eyes  and  laugh  at  a  fall, 
And  baffled,  get  up  and  begin  again, — 

So  the  chase  takes  up  one's  life,  that's  all. 
While,  look  but  once  from  your  farthest  bound 

At  me  so  deep  in  the  dust  and  dark, 
No  sooner  the  old  hope  goes  to  ground 

Than  a  new  one,  straight  to  the  selfsame  mark, 
I  shape  me — 
Ever 
Removed! 

(1855.) 

BEFORE 

Let  them  fight  it  out,  friend!  things  have  gone  too  far. 
God  must  judge  the  couple:  leave  them  as  they  are 
— Whichever  one's  the  guiltless,  to  his  glory, 
And  whichever  one  the  guilt's  with,  to  my  story! 

Why,  you  would  not  bid  men,  sunk  in  such  a  slough, 
Strike  no  arm  out  further,  stick  and  stink  as  now, 
Leaving  right  and  wrong  to  settle  the  embroilment, 
Heaven  with  snaky  hell,  in  torture  and  entoilment? 

Who's  the  culprit  of  them?    How  must  he  conceive 
God — the  queen  he  caps  to,  laughing  in  his  sleeve, 
"'Tis  but  decent  to  profess  oneself  beneath  her: 
Still,  one  must  not  be  too  much  in  earnest,  either!" 

Better  sin  the  whole  sin,  sure  that  God  observes; 
Then  go  live  his  life  out!     Life  will  try  his  nerves, 
When  the  sky,  which  noticed  all,  makes  no  disclosure, 
And  the  earth  keeps  up  her  terrible  composure. 


60  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Let  him  pace  at  pleasure,  past  the  walls  of  rose, 
Pluck  their  fruits  when  grape-trees  graze  him  as  he  goes! 
For  he  'gins  to  guess  the  purpose  of  the  garden, 
With  the  sly  mute  thing,  beside  there,  for  a  warden. 

What's  the  leopard-dog-thing,  constant  at  his  side, 
A  leer  and  lie  in  every  eye  of  its  obsequious  hide? 
When  will  come  an  end  of  all  the  mock  obeisance, 
And  the  price  appear  that  pays  for  the  misfeasance? 

So  much  for  the  culprit.     Who's  the  martyred  man? 
Let  him  bear  one  stroke  more,  for  be  sure  he  can! 
He  that  strove  thus  evil's  lump  with  good  to  leaven, 
Let  him  give  his  blood  at  last  and  get  his  heaven! 

All  or  nothing,  stake  it!   Trusts  he  God  or  no? 
Thus  far  and  no  farther?  farther?  be  it  so! 
Now,  enough  of  your  chicane  of  prudent  pauses, 
Sage  provisos,  sub-intents  and  saving-clauses! 

Ah,  "forgive"  you  bid  him?     While  God's  champion  lives, 
WTrong  shall  be  resisted:  dead,  why  he  forgives. 
But  you  must  not  end  my  friend  ere  you  begin  him; 
Evil  stands  not  crowned  on  earth,  while  breath  is  in  him. 

Once  more — Will  the  wronger,  at  this  last  of  all, 
Dare  to  say  "I  did  wrong,"  rising  in  his  fall? 
No? — Let  go,  then! — Both  the  fighters  to  their  places: 
While  I  count  three,  step  you  back  as  many  paces! 

(1855.) 


AFTER 

Take  the  cloak  from  his  face,  and  at  first 
Let  the  corpse  do  its  worst! 

How  he  lies  in  his  rights  of  a  man! 

Death  has  done  all  death  can. 
And,  absorbed  in  the  new  life  he  leads, 

He  recks  not,  he  heeds 
Nor  his  wrong  nor  my  vengeance;  both  strike 

On  his  senses  alike, 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  61 

And  are  lost  in  the  solemn  and  strange 

Surprise  of  the  change. 
Ha,  what  avails  death  to  erase 

His  offence,  my  disgrace? 
I  would  we  were  boys  as  of  old 

In  the  field,  by  the  fold: 
His  outrage,  God's  patience,  man's  scorn 

Were  so  easily  borne! 

I  stand  here  now,  he  lies  in  his  place: 
Cover  the  face! 

(1855.) 


THE  GUARDIAN-ANGEL' 

A    PICTURE   AT   FANO 

Dear  and  great  Angel,  wouldst  thou  only  leave 
That  child,  when  thou  hast  done  with  him,  for  me! 

Let  me  sit  all  the  day  here,  that  when  eve 
Shall  find  performed  thy  special  ministry, 

And  time  come  for  departure,  thou,  suspending 

Thy  flight,  may'st  see  another  child  for  tending, 
Another  still,  to  quiet  and  retrieve. 

Then  I  shall  feel  thee  step  one  step,  no  more, 
From  where  thou  standest  now,  to  where  I  gaze, 

— And  suddenly  my  head  is  covered  o'er 

With  those  wings,  white  above  the  child  who  prays 

Now  on  that  tomb — and  I  shall  feel  thee  guarding 

Me,  out  of  all  the  world;  for  me,  discarding 

Yon  heaven  thy  home,  that  waits  and  opes  its  door. 

I  would  not  look  up  thither  past  thy  head 

Because  the  door  opes,  like  that  child,  I  know, 

For  I  should  have  thy  gracious  face  instead, 
Thou  bird  of  God!     And  wilt  thou  bend  me  low 

Like  him,  and  lay,  like  his,  my  hands  together, 

1  A  picture  by  the  Italian  painter  Giovanni  Francesco  Barbieri, 
commonly  called  Guercino  (1591-1666). 


62  ROBERT  BROWNING 

And  lift  them  up  to  pray,  and  gently  tether 

Me,  as  thy  lamb  there,  with  thy  garment's  spread? 

If  this  was  ever  granted,  I  would  rest 

My  head  beneath  thine,  while  thy  healing  hands 

Close-covered  both  my  eyes  beside  thy  breast, 

Pressing  the  brain,  which  too  much  thought  expands, 

Back  to  its  proper  size  again,  and  smoothing 

Distortion  down  till  every  nerve  had  soothing, 
And  all  lay  quiet,  happy  and  suppressed. 

How  soon  all  worldly  wrong  would  be  repaired! 

I  think  how  I  should  view  the  earth  and  skies 
And  sea,  when  once  again  my  brow  was  bared 

After  thy  healing,  with  such  different  eyes. 

0  world,  as  God  has  made  it!     All  is  beauty: 
And  knowing  this,  is  love,  and  love  is  duty. 

What  further  may  be  sought  for  or  declared? 

Guercino  drew  this  angel  I  saw  teach 

(Alfred,1  dear  friend!) — that  little  child  to  pray, 

Holding  the  little  hands  up,  each  to  each 

Pressed  gently, — with  his  own  head  turned  away 

Over  the  earth  where  so  much  lay  before  him 

Of  work  to  do,  though  heaven  was  opening  o'er  him, 
And  he  was  left  at  Fano  by  the  beach. 

We  were  at  Fano,  and  three  times  we  went 

To  sit  and  see  him  in  his  chapel  there, 
And  drink  his  beauty  to  our  soul's  content 

— My  angel2  with  me  too:  and  since  I  care 

For  dear  Guercino's  fame  (to  which  in  power 
And  glory  comes  this  picture  for  a  dower, 

Fraught  with  a  pathos  so  magnificent) — 

And  since  he  did  not  work  thus  earnestly 

At  all  times,  and  has  else  endured  some  wrong — 

1  took  one  thought  his  picture  struck  from  me, 
And  spread  it  out,  translating  it  to  song. 

i  Alfred  Domett,  an  old  friend  of  Browning,  who  had  gone  to  New 
Zealand  to  live. 
1  Mrs.  Browning. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  63 

My  love  is  here.     Where  are  you,  dear  old  friend? 
How  rolls  the  Wairoa1  at  your  world's  far  end? 
This  is  Ancona,  yonder  is  the  sea. 

(1855.) 


MEMORABILIA 

Ah,  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain, 
And  did  he  stop  and  speak  to  you 

And  did  you  speak  to  him  again? 
How  strange  it  seems  and  new! 

But  you  were  living  before  that, 

And  also  you  are  living  after; 
And  the  memory  I  started  at — 

My  starting  moves  your  laughter. 

I  crossed  a  moor,  with  a  name  of  its  own 
And  a  certain  use  in  the  world  no  doubt, 

Yet  a  hand's-breath  of  it  shines  alone 
'Mid  the  blank  miles  round  about: 

For  there  I  picked  up  on  the  heather 
And  there  I  put  inside  my  breast 

A  moulted  feather,  an  eagle-feather! 
Well,  I  forget  the  rest. 

(1855.) 


POPULARITY 

Stand  still,  true  poet  that  you  are! 

I  know  you ;  let  me  try  and  draw  you. 
Some  night  you'll  fail  us:  when  afar 

You  rise,  remember  one  man  saw  you, 
Knew  you,  and  named  a  star! 

My  star,  God's  glow-worm!     Why  extend 
That  loving  hand  of  his  which  leads  you 

1  A  river  in  New  Zealand. 


64  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Yet  locks  you  safe  from  end  to  end 

Of  this  dark  world,  unless  he  needs  you, 
Just  saves  your  light  to  spend? 

His  clenched  hand  shall  unclose  at  last, 
I  know,  and  let  out  all  the  beauty: 

My  poet  holds  the  future  fast, 
Accepts  the  coming  ages '  duty, 

Their  present  for  this  past. 

That  day,  the  earth's  feast-master's  brow 
Shall  clear,  to  God  the  chalice  raising; 

"Others  give  best  at  first,  but  thou 
For  ever  set'st  our  table  praising, 

Keep'st  the  good  wine  till  now!" 

Meantime,  I'll  draw  you  as  you  stand, 
With  few  or  none  to  watch  and  wonder' 

I'll  say — a  fisher,  on  the  sand 

By  Tyre  the  Old,  with  ocean-plunder, 

A  netful,  brought  to  land. 

Who  has  not  heard  how  Tyrian  shells 
Enclosed  the  blue,  that  dye  of  dyes 

Whereof  one  drop  worked  miracles, 
And  coloured  like  Astarte's  eyes 

Raw  silk  the  merchant  sells? 

And  each  bystander  of  them  all 
Could  criticise,  and  quote  tradition 

How  depths  of  blue  sublimed  some  pall 

—To  get  which,  pricked  a  king's  ambition; 

Worth  sceptre,  crown  and  ball. 

Yet  there's  the  dye,  in  that  rough  mesh, 
The  sea  has  only  just  o'erwhispered! 

Live  whelks,  each  lip's-beard  dripping  fresh, 
As  if  they  still  the  water's  lisp  heard 

Through  foam  the  rock-weeds  thresh. 

Enough  to  furnish  Solomon 

Such  hangings  for  his  cedar-house, 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  65 

That,  when  gold-robed  he  took  the  throne 

In  that  abyss  of  blue,  the  Spouse 
Might  swear  his  presence  shone 

Most  like  the  centre-spike  of  gold 

Which  burns  deep  in  the  blue-bell's  womb, 

What  time,  with  ardours  manifold, 
The  bee  goes  singing  to  her  groom, 

Drunken  and  overbold. 

Mere  conchs!  not  fit  for  warp  or  woof! 

Till  cunning  come  to  pound  and  squeeze 
And  clarify, — refine  to  proof 

The  liquor  filtered  by  degrees, 
While  the  world  stands  aloof. 

And  there's  the  extract,  flasked  and  fine, 

And  priced  and  saleable  at  last! 
And  Hobbs,  Nobbs,  Stokes  and  Nokes  combine 

To  paint  the  future  from  the  past, 
Put  blue  into  their  line. 

Hobbs  hints  blue, — straight  he  turtle  eats: 
Nobbs  prints  blue, — claret  crowns  his  cup: 

Nokes  outdares  Stokes  in  azure  feats, — 
Both  gorge.     Who  fished  the  murex  up? 

What  porridge  had  John  Keats? 

(1855.) 


MASTER  HUGUES  OF  SAXE-GOTHA1 

Hist,  but  a  word,  fair  and  soft! 

Forth  and  be  judged,  Master  Hugues! 
Answer  the  question  I've  put  you  so  oft: 

What  do  you  mean  by  your  mountainous  fugues?2 
See,  we're  alone  in  the  loft, — 

1  An  imaginary  composer. 

"  A  fugue  is  denned  in  Grove's  Dictionary  of  Music  and  Musicians 
as  "a  musical  movement  in  which  a  definite  number  of  parts  or  voices 
combine  in  stating  and  developing  a  single  theme,  the  interest  being 
cumulative." 


66  ROBERT  BROWNING 

I,  the  poor  organist  here, 

Hugues,  the  composer  of  note; 
Dead  though,  and  done  with,  this  many  a  year: 

Let's  have  a  colloquy,  something  to  quote, 
Make  the  world  prick  up  its  ear! 

See,  the  church  empties  apace: 

Fast  they  extinguish  the  lights. 
Hallo  there,  sacristan!     Five  minutes'  grace! 

Here's  a  crank  pedal  wants  setting  to  rights, 
Balks  one  of  holding  the  base. 

See,  our  huge  house  of  the  sounds, 

Hushing  its  hundreds  at  once, 
Bids  the  last  loiterer  back  to  his  bounds! 

— 0  you  may  challenge  them,  not  a  response 
Get  the  church-saints  on  their  rounds! 

(Saints  go  their  rounds,  who  shall  doubt? 

— March,  with  the  moon  to  admire, 
Up  nave,  down  chancel,  turn  transept  about, 

Supervise  all  betwixt  pavement  and  spire, 
Put  rats  and  mice  to  the  rout — 

Aloys  and  Jurien  and  Just — 

Order  things  back  to  their  place, 
Have  a  sharp  eye  lest  the  candlesticks  rust, 

Rub  the  church-plate,  darn  the  sacrament-lace, 
Clear  the  desk-velvet  of  dust.) 

Here's  your  book,  younger  folks  shelve! 

Played  I  not  off-hand  and  runningly, 
Just  now,  your  masterpiece,  hard  number  twelve? 

Here's  what  should  strike,  could  one  handle  it  cunningly: 
Help  the  axe,  give  it  a  helve! 

Page  after  page  as  I  played, 

Every  bar's  rest,  where  one  wipes 
Sweat  from  one's  brow,  I  looked  up  and  surveyed, 

O'er  my  three  claviers,  yon  forest  of  pipes 
Whence  you  still  peeped  in  the  shade. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  67 

Sure  you  were  wishful  to  speak? 

You,  with  brow  ruled  like  a  score, 
Yes,  and  eyes  buried  in  pits  on  each  cheek, 

Like  two  great  breves,  as  they  wrote  them  of  yore, 
Each  side  that  bar,  your  straight  beak! 

Sure  you  said — "Good,  the  mere  notes! 

Still,  couldst  thou  take  my  intent, 
Know  what  procured  me  our  Company's  votes — 

A  Master  were  lauded  and  sciolists  shent, 
Parted  the  sheep  from  the  goats!" 

Well  then,  speak  up,  never  flinch! 

Quick,  ere  my  candle's  a  snuff 
— Burnt,  do  you  see?  to  its  uttermost  inch — 

/  believe  in  you,  but  that's  not  enough: 
Give  my  conviction  a  clinch! 

First  you  deliver  your  phrase 

— Nothing  propound,  that  I  see, 
Fit  in  itself  for  much  blame  or  much  praise — 

Answered  no  less,  where  no  answer  needs  be: 
Off  start  the  Two  on  their  ways. 

Straight  must  a  Third  interpose, 

Volunteer  needlessly  help; 
In  strikes  a  Fourth,  a  Fifth  thrusts  in  his  nose, 

So  the  cry's  open,  the  kennel's  a-yelp, 
Argument's  hot  to  the  close. 

One  dissertates,  he  is  candid; 

Two  must  discept, — has  distinguished; 
Three  helps  the  couple,  if  ever  yet  man  did; 

Four  protests;  Five  makes  a  dart  at  the  thing  wished: 
Back  to  One,  goes  the  case  bandied. 

One  says  his  say  with  a  difference; 

More  of  expounding,  explaining! 
All  now  is  wrangle,  abuse,  and  vociferance; 

Now  there's  a  truce,  all's  subdued,  self-restraining: 
Five,  though,  stands  out  all  the  stiffer  hence. 


68  ROBERT  BROWNING 

One  is  incisive,  corrosive; 

Two  retorts,  nettled,  curt,  crepitant; 
Three  makes  rejoinder,  expansive,  explosive; 

Four  overbears  them  all,  strident  and  strepitant: 
Five  ...   0  Danaides,1  0  Sieve! 

Now,  they  ply  axes  and  crowbars ; 

Now,  they  prick  pins  at  a  tissue 
Fine  as  a  skein  of  the  casuist  Escobar's2 

Worked  on  the  bone  of  a  lie.     To  what  issue? 
Where  is  our  gain  at  the  Two-bars? 

Estfuga,  volvitur  rota.3 

On  we  drift:  where  looms  the  dim  port? 
One,  Two,  Three,  Four,  Five,  contribute  their  quota; 

Something  is  gained,  if  one  caught  but  the  import — 
Show  it  us,  Hugues  of  Saxe-Gotha! 

What  with  affirming,  denying, 

Holding,  risposting,  subjoining, 
All's  like  .  .  .  it's  like  ...  for  an  instance  I'm  trying  .  .  . 

There!     See  our  roof,  its  gilt  moulding  and  groining 
Under  those  spider-webs  lying! 

So  your  fugue  broadens  and  thickens, 

Greatens  and  deepens  and  lengthens, 
Till  we  exclaim — "But  where's  music,  the  dickens? 

Blot  ye  the  gold,  while  your  spider-web  strengthens 
— Blacked  to  the  stoutest  of  tickens?" 

I  for  man's  effort  am  zealous : 

Prove  me  such  censure  unfounded! 
Seems  it  surprising  a  lover  grows  jealous — 

Hopes  'twas  for  something,  his  organ-pipes  sounded, 
Tiring  three  boys  at  the  bellows? 

1  Daughters  of  Danaus,  who,  according  to  the  myth,  killed  their 
husbands  and  as  punishment  had  to  labor  eternally  in  Tartarus  trying 
to  fill  with  water  a  leaky  vessel. 

2  A  Spanish  churchman  (1589-1669),  the  general  tendency  of  whose 
philosophical  writings  was  to  find  excuse  for  human  weakness. 

3  It  is  a  flight  [i.  e.,  figure],  the  wheel  turns  of  itself. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  69 

Is  it  your  moral  of  Life? 

Such  a  web,  simple  and  subtle, 
Weave  we  on  earth  here  in  impotent  strife, 

Backward  and  forward  each  throwing  his  shuttle, 
Death  ending  all  with  a  knife? 

Over  our  heads  truth  and  nature — 

Still  our  life's  zigzags  and  dodges, 
Ins  and  outs,  weaving  a  new  legislature — 

God's  gold  just  shining  its  last  where  that  lodges, 
Palled  beneath  Man's  usurpature. 

So  we  o'ershroud  stars  and  roses, 

Cherub  and  trophy  and  garland; 
Nothings  grow  something  which  quietly  closes 

Heaven's  earnest  eye:  not  a  glimpse  of  the  far  land 
Gets  through  our  comments  and  glozes. 

Ah,  but  traditions,  inventions, 

(Say  we  and  make  up  a  visage) 
So  many  men  with  such  various  intentions, 

Down  the  past  ages,  must  know  more  than  this  age! 
Leave  we  the  web  its  dimensions! 

Who  thinks  Hugues  wrote  for  the  deaf, 

Proved  a  mere  mountain  in  labour? 
Better  submit;  try  again;  what's  the  clef? 

'Faith,  'tis  no  trifle  for  pipe  and  for  tabor — 
Four  flats,  the  minor  in  F. 

Friend,  your  fugue  taxes  the  finger: 

Learning  it  once,  who  would  lose  it? 
Yet  all  the  while  a  misgiving  will  linger, 

Truth's  golden  o'er  us  although  we  refuse  it — 
Nature,  thro '  cobwebs  we  string  her. 

Hugues!     I  advise  med  pcend1 

(Counterpoint  glares  like  a  Gorgon) 


1  At  the  risk  of  my  punishment. 


70  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Bid  One,  Two,  Three,  Four,  Five,  clear  the  arena! 

Say  the  word,  straight  I  unstop  the  full-organ, 
Blare  out  the  mode  Palestrina.1 

While  in  the  roof,  if  I'm  right  there, 

.    .    .   Lo  you,  the  wick  in  the  socket! 
Hallo,  you  sacristan,  show  us  a  light  there! 

Down  it  dips,  gone  like  a  rocket. 
What,  you  want,  do  you,  to  come  unawares, 
Sweeping  the  church  up  for  first  morning-prayers, 
And  find  a  poor  devil  has  ended  his  cares 
At  the  foot  of  your  rotten-runged  rat-riddled  stairs? 

Do  I  carry  the  moon  in  my  pocket? 

(1855.) 

INCIDENT   OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP 

You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon: 

A  mile  or  so  away, 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused  "My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 
Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall,"- 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy: 

1  In  the  manner  of  Palestrina.  The  influence  of  Palestrina  (1526- 
1694;,  one  of  the  greatest  Italian  musicians.was  against  excessively 
difficult  forms  of  composition. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  71 

You  hardly  could  suspect — 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through) 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

"Well,"  cried  he,  "Emperor,  by  God's  grace 

WVve  got  you  Ratisbon! 
The  Marshal's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you'll  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

WThere  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him!"     The  chief's  eye  flashed;  his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 

The  chief's  eye  flashed;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes ; 
"You're  wounded!"     "Nay,"  the  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said:  ^ 

"I'm  killed,  Sire!"     And  his  chief  beside, 

Smiling  the  boy  fell  dead. 

(1842.) 

THE  PATRIOT 

AN    OLD    STORY 

It  was  roses,  roses,  all  the  way, 

With  myrtle  mixed  in  my  path  like  mad: 

The  house-roofs  seemed  to  heave  and  sway, 
The  church-spires  flamed,  such  flags  they  had, 

A  year  ago  on  this  very  day. 

The  air  broke  into  a  mist  with  bells, 

The  old  walls  rocked  with  the  crowd  and  cries. 

Had  I  said,  "Good  folk,  mere  noise  repels — 
But  give  me  your  sun  from  yonder  skies!" 

They  had  answered,  "And  afterward,  what  else?" 

Alack,  it  was  I  who  leaped  at  the  sun 

To  give  it  my  loving  friends  to  keep! 
Naught  man  could  do,  have  I  left  undone: 


72  ROBERT  BROWNING 

And  you  see  my  harvest,  what  I  reap 
This  very  day,  now  a  year  is  run. 

There's  nobody  on  the  house-tops  now — 
Just  a  palsied  few  at  the  windows  set; 

For  the  best  of  the  sight  is,  all  allow, 
At  the  Shambles '  Gate — or,  better  yet, 

By  the  very  scaffold's  foot,  I  trow. 

I  go  in  the  rain,  and,  more  than  needs, 
A  rope  cuts  both  my  wrists  behind ; 

And  I  think,  by  the  feel,  my  forehead  bleeds, 
For  they  fling,  whoever  has  a  mind, 

Stones  at  me  for  my  year's  misdeeds. 

Thus  I  entered,  and  thus  I  go! 

In  triumphs,  people  have  dropped  down  dead. 
"Paid  by  the  world,  what  dost  thou  owe 

Me?" — God  might  question;  now  instead, 
'T  is  God  shall  repay:  I  am  safer  so. 

(1855.) 


MY   LAST   DUCHESS 

FERRARA1 

That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall, 
Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.     I  call 
That  piece  a  wonder,  now:   Fra  Pandolf's  hands 
Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 
Will't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her?     I  said 
"Fra  Pandplf "  by  design,  for  never  read 
Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  countenance, 
The  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance, 
But  to  myself  they  turned  (since  none  puts  by 
The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I) 
And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they  durst, 
How  such  a  glance  came  there;  so,  not  the  first 

1  A  town  in  northern  Italy,  famous  during  the  Renaissance  for  the 
brilliance  and  cruelty  of  its  ruling  house. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  73 

Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.     Sir,  't  was  not 

Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that  spot 

Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek:  perhaps 

Fra  Pandolf  chanced  to  say,  "Her  mantel  laps 

Over  my  lady's  wrist  too  much,"  or  "Paint 

Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 

Half-flush  that  dies  along  her  throat":  such  stuff 

Was  courtesy,  she  thought,  and  cause  enough 

For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.     She  had 

A  heart — how  shall  I  say? — too  soon  made  glad, 

Too  easily  impressed;  she  liked  whate'er 

She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  everywhere. 

Sir,  't  was  all  one!     My  favor  at  her  breast, 

The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 

The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 

Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 

She  rode  with  round  the  terrace — all  and  each 

Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving  speech, 

Or  blush,  at  least.     She  thanked  men, — good!  but  thanked 

Somehow — I  know  not  how — as  if  she  ranked 

My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 

With  anybody's  gift.     Who'd  stoop  to  blame 

This  sort  of  trifling?     Even  had  you  skill 

In  speech — (which  I  have  not) — to  make  your  will 

Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  "Just  this 

Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me;  here  you  miss, 

Or  there  exceed  the  mark" — and  if  she  let 

Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set 

Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  excuse, 

— E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping;  and  I  choose 

Never  to  stoop.     Oh  sir,  she  smiled,  no  doubt, 

Whene'er  I  passed  her;  but  who  passed  without 

Much  the  same  smile?     This  grew;  I  gave  commands; 

Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.     There  she  stands 

As  if  alive.     Will  't  please  you  rise?     We'll  meet 

The  company  below,  then.     I  repeat, 

The  Count  your  master's  known  munificence 

Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretence 

Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed; 

Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I  avowed 

At  starting,  is  my  object.     Nay,  we'll  go 

Together  down,  sir.     Notice  Neptune,  though, 


74  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity, 

Which  Glaus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for  me! 

(1842.) 


COUNT  GISMOND 

AIX    IN    PROVENCE 

Christ  God  who  savest  man,  save  most 
Of  men  Count  Gismond  who  saved  me! 

Count  Gauthier,  when  he  chose  his  post, 
Chose  time  and  place  and  company 

To  suit  it;  when  he  struck  at  length 

My  honour,  'twas  with  all  his  strength. 

And  doubtlessly  ere  he  could  draw 

All  points  to  one,  he  must  have  schemed! 

That  miserable  morning  saw 
Few  half  so  happy  as  I  seemed, 

While  being  dressed  in  queen's  array 

To  give  our  tourney  prize  away. 

I  thought  they  loved  me,  did  me  grace 
To  please  themselves;  'twas  all  their  deed; 

God  makes,  or  fair  or  foul,  our  face; 
If  showing  mine  so  caused  to  bleed 

My  cousins'  hearts,  they  should  have  dropped 

A  word,  and  straight  the  play  had  stopped. 

They,  too,  so  beauteous!     Each  a  queen 
By  virtue  of  her  brow  and  breast; 

Not  needing  to  be  crowned,  I  mean, 
As  I  do.     E'en  when  I  was  dressed, 

Had  either  of  them  spoke,  instead 

Of  glancing  sideways  with  still  head! 

But  no:  they  let  me  laugh,  and  sing 

My  birthday  song  quite  through,  adjust 

The  last  rose  in  my  garland,  fling 
A  last  look  on  the  mirror,  trust 

My  arms  to  each  an  arm  of  theirs, 

And  so  descend  the  castle-stairs — 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  75 

And  come  out  on  the  morning-troop 
Of  merry  friends  who  kissed  my  cheek, 

And  called  me  queen,  and  made  me  stoop 
Under  the  canopy — (a  streak 

That  pierced  it,  of  the  outside  sun, 

Powdered  with  gold  its  gloom's  soft  dun) — 

And  they  could  let  me  take  my  state 

And  foolish  throne  amid  applause 
Of  all  come  there  to  celebrate 

My  queen's  day — Oh  I  think  the  cause 
Of  much  was,  they  forgot  no  crowd 
Makes  up  for  parents  in  their  shroud! 

However  that  be,  all  eyes  were  bent 

Upon  me,  when  my  cousins  cast 
Theirs  down;  'twas  time  I  should  present 

The  victor's  crown,  but   .    .    .   there,  'twill  last 
No  long  time   .    .    .   the  old  mist  again 
Blinds  me  as  then  it  did.     How  vain! 

See!  Gismond's  at  the  gate,  in  talk 

With  his  two  boys:  I  can  proceed. 
Well,  at  that  moment,  who  should  stalk 

Forth  boldly — to  my  face,  indeed — 
But  Gauthier,  and  he  thundered  "Stay!" 
And  all  stayed.     "Bring  no  crowns,  I  say! 

"Bring  torches!     Wind  the  penance-sheet 

About  her!     Let  her  shun  the  chaste, 
Or  lay  herself  before  their  feet! 

Shall  she  whose  body  I  embraced 
A  night  long,  queen  it  in  the  day? 
For  honour's  sake  no  crowns,  I  say!" 

I?     What  I  answered?     As  I  live, 

I  never  fancied  such  a  thing 
As  answer  possible  to  give. 

What  says  the  body  when  they  spring 
Some  monstrous  torture-engine's  whole 
Strength  on  it?     No  more  says  the  soul. 


76  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Till  out  strode  Gismond;  then  I  knew 

That  I  was  saved.     I  never  met 
His  face  before,  but,  at  first  view, 

I  felt  quite  sure  that  God  had  set 
Himself  to  Satan;  who  would  spend 
A  minute's  mistrust  on  the  end? 

He  strode  to  Gauthier,  in  his  throat 

Gave  him  the  lie,  then  struck .  his  mouth 

With  one  back-handed  blow  that  wrote 

In  blood  men's  verdict  there.     North,  South, 

East,  West,  I  looked.     The  lie  was  dead, 

And  damned,  and  truth  stood  up  instead. 

This  glads  me  most,  that  I  enjoyed 
The  heart  of  the  joy,  with  my  content 

In  watching  Gismond  unalloyed 
By  any  doubt  of  the  event: 

God  took  that  on  him — I  was  bid 

Watch  Gismond  for  my  part:   I  did. 

Did  I  not  watch  him  while  he  let 
His  armourer  just  brace  his  greaves, 

Rivet  his  hauberk,  on  the  fret 

The  while!     His  foot   .    .    .   my  memory  leaves 

No  least  stamp  out,  nor  how  anon 

He  pulled  his  ringing  gauntlets  on. 

And  e'en  before  the  trumpet's  sound 
Was  finished,  prone  lay  the  false  knight, 

Prone  as  his  lie,  upon  the  ground: 
Gismond  flew  at  him,  used  no  sleight 

0'  the  sword,  but  open-breasted  drove, 

Cleaving  till  out  the  truth  he  clove. 

Which  done,  he  dragged  him  to  my  foet 
And  said  "Here  die,  but  end  thy  breath 

In  full  confession,  lest  thou  fleet 

From  my  first,  to  God's  second  death! 

Say,  hast  thou  lied?"     And,  "I  have  lied 

To  God  and  her,"  he  said,  and  died. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  77 

Then  Gismond,  kneeling  to  me,  asked 

— What  safe  my  heart  holds,  tho '  no  word 

Could  I  repeat  now,  if  I  tasked 
My  powers  for  ever,  to  a  third 

Dear  even  as  you  are.     Pass  the  rest 

Until  I  sank  upon  his  breast. 

Over  my  head  his  arm  he  flung 

Against  the  world;  and  scarce  I  felt 
His  sword  (that  dripped  by  me  and  swung) 

A  little  shifted  in  its  belt: 
For  he  began  to  say  the  while 
How  South  our  home  lay  many  a  mile. 

So  'mid  the  shouting  multitude 

We  two  walked  forth  to  never  more 
Return.     My  cousins  have  pursued 

Their  life,  untroubled  as  before 
I  vexed  them.     Gauthier's  dwelling-place 
God  lighten!     May  his  soul  find  grace! 

Our  elder  boy  has  got  the  clear 

Great  brow;  tho'  when  his  brother's  black 

Full  eye  shows  scorn,  it   ...   Gismond  here? 
And  have  you  brought  my  tercel  back? 

I  just  was  telling  Adela 

How  many  birds  it  struck  since  May. 

(1842.) 


THE  BOY  AND   THE  ANGEL 

Morning,  evening,  noon  and  night, 
"Praise  God!"  sang  Theocrite. 

Then  to  his  poor  trade  he  turned, 
Whereby  the  daily  meal  was  earned. 

Hard  he  laboured,  long  and  well; 
O'er  his  work  the  boy's  curls  fell. 


78  ROBERT  BROWNING 

But  ever,  at  each  period, 

He  stopped  and  sang,  "Praise  God!" 

Then  back  again  his  curls  he  threw, 
And  cheerful  turned  to  work  anew. 

Said  Blaise,  the  listening  monk,  "Well  done; 
I  doubt  not  thou  art  heard,  my  son : 

"As  well  as  if  thy  voice  to-day 

Were  praising  God,  the  Pope's  great  way. 

"This  Easter  Day,  the  Pope  at  Rome 
Praises  God  from  Peter's  dome." 

Said  Theocrite,  "Would  God  that  I 

Might  praise  Him,  that  great  way,  and  die!" 

Xight  passed,  day  shone, 
And  Theocrite  was  gone. 

With  God  a  cky  endures  alway, 
A  thousand  years  are  but  a  day. 

God  said  in  heaven,  "Nor  day  nor  night 
Now  brings  the  voice  of  my  delight." 

Then  Gabriel,  like  a  rainbow's  birth, 
Spread  his  wings  and  sank  to  earth; 

Entered,  in  flesh,  the  empty  cell, 

Lived  there,  and  played  the  craftsman  well; 

And  morning,  evening,  noon  and  night, 
Praised  God  in  place  of  Theocrite. 

And  from  a  boy,  to  youth  he  grew: 
The  man  put  off  the  stripling's  hue: 

The  man  matured  and  fell  away 
Into  the  season  of  decay. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  79 

And  ever  o'er  the  trade  he  bent, 
And  ever  lived  on  earth  content. 

(He  did  God's  will;  to  him,  all  one 
If  on  the  earth  or  in  the  sun.) 

God  said,  "A  praise  is  in  mine  ear; 
There  is  no  doubt  in  it,  no  fear: 

"So  sing  old  worlds,  and  so 

New  worlds  that  from  my  footstool  go. 

"Clearer  loves  sound  other  ways: 
I  miss  my  little  human  praise." 

Then  forth  sprang  Gabriel's  wings,  off  fell 
The  flesh  disguise,  remained  the  cell. 

'Twas  Easter  Day:  he  flew  to  Rome,  • 
And  paused  above  Saint  Peter's  dome. 

In  the  tiring-room  close  by 
The  great  outer  gallery, 

With  holy  vestments  dight, 
Stood  the  new  Pope,  Theocrite: 

And  all  his  past  career 
Came  back  upon  him  clear, 

Since  when,  a  boy,  he  plied  his  trade, 
Till  on  his  life  the  sickness  weighed; 

And  in  his  cell,  when  death  drew  near, 
An  angel  in  a  dream  brought  cheer: 

And  rising  from  the  sickness  drear 
He  grew  a  priest,  and  now  stood  here. 

To  the  East  with  praise  he  turned, 
And  on  his  sight  the  angel  burned. 


80  ROBERT  BROWNING 

"I  bore  thee  from  thy  craftsman's  cell, 
And  set  thee  here;  I  did  not  well. 

"Vainly  I  left  my  angel's-sphere, 
Vain  was  thy  dream  of  many  a  year. 

"Thy  voice's  praise  seemed  weak;  it  dropped — 
Creation's  chorus  stopped! 

"Go  back  and  praise  again 
The  early  way,  while  I  remain. 

"With  that  weak  voice  of  our  disdain, 
Take  up  creation's  pausing  strain. 

"Back  to  the  cell  and  poor  employ: 
Resume  the  craftsman  and  the  boy!" 

Theocrite  grew  old  at  home; 

A  new  Pope  dwelt  in  Peter's  dome. 

One  vanished  as  the  other  died: 
They  sought  God  side  by  side. 

(1845.) 


INSTAXS  TYRANNUS1 

Of  the  million  or  two,  more  or  less, 
I  rule  and  possess, 
One  man,  for  some  cause  undefined, 
Was  least  to  my  mind. 

I  struck  him,  he  grovelled  of  course — 

For,  what  was  his  force? 

I  pinned  him  to  earth  with  my  weight 

And  persistence  of  hate: 

And  he  lay,  would  not  moan,  would  not  curse, 

As  his  lot  might  be  worse. 

1  The  threatening  tyrant. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  81 

"Were  the  object  less  mean,  would  he  stand 

At  the  swing  of  my  hand! 

For  obscurity  helps  him  and  blots 

The  hole  where  he  squats." 

So,  I  set  my  five  wits  on  the  stretch 

To  inveigle  the  wretch. 

All  in  vain!     Gold  and  jewels  I  threw, 

Still  he  couched  there  perdue; 

I  tempted  his  blood  and  his  flesh, 

Hid  in  roses  my  mesh, 

Choicest  cates  and  the  flagon's  best  spilth: 

Still  he  kept  to  his  filth. 

Had  he  kith  now  or  kin,  were  access 

To  his  heart,  did  I  press: 

Just  a  son  or  a  mother  to  seize! 

No  such  booty  as  these. 

Were  it  simply  a  friend  to  pursue 

'Mid  my  million  or  two, 

Who  could  pay  me  in  person  or  pelf 

What  he  owes  me  himself! 

No:  I  could  not  but  smile  through  my  chafe: 

For  the  fellow  lay  safe 

As  his  mates  do,  the  midge  and  the  nit, 

—Through  minuteness,  to  wit. 

Then  a  humour  more  great  took  its  place 

At  the  thought  of  his  face, 

The  droop,  the  low  cares  of  the  mouth, 

The  trouble  uncouth 

'Twixt  the  brows,  all  that  air  one  is  fain 

To  put  out  of  its  pain. 

And,  "no!"  I  admonished  myself, 

"Is  one  mocked  by  an  elf, 

Is  one  baffled  by  toad  or  by  rat? 

The  gravamen's  in  that! 

How  the  lion,  who  crouches  to  suit 

His  back  to  my  foot, 

Would  admire  that  I  stand  in  debate! 

But  the  small  turns  the  great 

If  it  vexes  you, — that  is  the  thing! 

Toad  or  rat  vex  the  king? 


82  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Though  I  waste  half  my  realm  to  unearth 
Toad  or  rat,  'tis  well  worth!" 

So,  I  soberly  laid  my  last  plan 

To  extinguish  the  man. 

Round  his  creep-hole,  with  never  a  break 

Ran  my  fires  for  his  sake; 

Over-head,  did  my  thunder  combine 

With  my  underground  mine: 

Till  I  looked  from  my  labour  content 

To  enjoy  the  event. 

When  sudden   .    .    .   how  think  ye,  the  end? 

Did  I  say  "without  friend"? 

Say  rather,  from  marge  to  blue  marge 

The  whole  sky  grew  his  targe 

With  the  sun's  self  for  visible  boss, 

While  an  Arm  ran  across 

Which  the  earth  heaved  beneath  like  a  breast 

Where  the  wretch  was  safe  prest! 

Do  you  see?     Just  my  vengeance  complete, 

The  man  sprang  to  his  feet, 

Stood  erect,  caught  at  God's  skirts,  and  prayed! 

— So,  /  was  afraid! 

(1855.) 

THE   GLOVE 
(PETER  RONSAKD  loquitur.) 

"Heigho!"  yawned  one  day  King  Francis,1 
"Distance  all  value  enhances! 
When  a  man's  busy,  why,  leisure 
Strikes  him  as  wonderful  pleasure: 
'Faith,  and  at  leisure  once  is  he? 
Straightway  he  wants  to  be  busy. 
Here  we've  got  peace;  and  aghast  I'm 
Caught  thinking  war  the  true  pastime! 
Is  there  a  reason  in  metre? 

1  Francis  I  (1494-1547),  to  whom  the  poet  Ronsard  (1524-1585), 
who  tells  the  story,  was  once  a  page. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  83 

Give  us  your  speech,  master  Peter!" 
I  who,  if  mortal  dare  say  so, 
Ne'er  am  at  loss  with  my  Naso,1 
"Sire,"  I  replied,  "joys  prove  cloudlets: 
Men  are  the  merest  Ixions" — 
Here  the  King  whistled  aloud,  "  Let's 
— Heigho — go  look  at  our  lions!" 
Such  are  the  sorrowful  chances 
If  you  talk  fine  to  King  Francis. 

And  so,  to  the  courtyard  proceeding, 

Our  company,  Francis  was  leading, 

Increased  by  new  followers  tenfold 

Before  he  arrived  at  the  penfold; 

Lords,  ladies,  like  clouds  which  bedizen 

At  sunset  the  western  horizon. 

And  Sir  De  Lorge  pressed  'mid  the  foremost 

With  the  dame  he  professed  to  adore  most. 

Oh,  what  a  face!     One  by  fits  eyed 

Her,  and  the  horrible  pitside; 

For  the  penfold  surrounded  a  hollow 

Which  led  where  the  eye  scarce  dared  follow, 

And  shelved  to  the  chamber  secluded 

Where  Bluebeard,  the  great  lion,  brooded. 

The  King  hailed  his  keeper,  an  Arab 

As  glossy  and  black  as  a  scarab, 

And  bade  him  make  sport  and  at  once  stir 

Up  and  out  of  his  den  the  old  monster. 

They  opened  a  hole  in  the  wire-work 

Across  it,  and  dropped  there  a  firework, 

And  fled:  one's  heart's  beating  redoubled; 

A  pause,  while  the  pit's  mouth  was  troubled, 

The  blackness  and  silence  so  utter, 

By  the  fire  work's  slow  sparkling  and  sputter; 

Then  earth  in  a  sudden  contortion 

Gave  out  to  our  gaze  her  abortion. 

Such  a  brute!     Were  I  friend  Clement  Marot2 

(Whose  experience  of  nature's  but  narrow, 

And  whose  faculties  move  in  no  small  mist 

1  Publiua  Ovidius  Naso,  commonly  called  Ovid  (43  B.C.-17A.  D.) 

2  Court  poet  to  Francis  I  (1496-1544). 


84  ROBERT  BROWNING 

When  he  versifies  David  the  Psalmist) 
I  should  study  that  brute  to  describe  you 
Ilium  Juda  Leonem  de  Tribu!1 

One's  whole  blood  grew  curdling  and  creepy 

To  see  the  black  mane,  vast  and  heapy, 

The  tail  in  the  air  stiff  and  straining, 

The  wide  eyes,  nor  waxing  nor  waning, 

As  over  the  barrier  which  bounded 

His  platform,  and  us  who  surrounded 

The  barrier,  they  reached  and  they  rested 

On  space  that  might  stand  him  in  best  stead: 

For  who  knew,  he  thought,  what  the  amazement, 

The  eruption  of  clatter  and  blaze  meant, 

And  if,  in  this  minute  of  wonder, 

No  outlet,  'mid  lightning  and  thunder, 

Lay  broad,  and,  his  shackles  all  shivered, 

The  lion  at  last  was  delivered? 

Ay,  that  was  the  open  sky  o'erhead! 

And  you  saw  by  the  flash  on  his  forehead, 

By  the  hope  in  those  eyes  wide  and  steady, 

He  was  leagues  in  the  desert  already, 

Driving  the  flocks  up  the  mountain, 

Or  catlike  couched  hard  by  the  fountain 

To  waylay  the  date-gathering  negress: 

So  guarded  he  entrance  or  egress. 

"How  he  stands!"  quoth  the  King:  "we  may  well  swear, 

(No  novice,  we've  won  our  spurs  elsewhere 

And  so  can  afford  the  confession,) 

We  exercise  wholesome  discretion 

In  keeping  aloof  from  his  threshold; 

Once  hold  you,  those  jaws  want  no  fresh  hold, 

Their  first  would  too  pleasantly  purloin 

The  visitor's  brisket  or  sirloin: 

But  who's  he  would  prove  so  fool-hardy? 

Not  the  best  man  of  Marignan,  pardie!" 

The  sentence  no  sooner  was  uttered, 
Than  over  the  rails  a  glove  fluttered, 
Fell  close  to  the  lion,  and  rested: 

1  That  lion  of  the  tribe  of  Judah. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  85 

The  dame  'twas,  who  flung  it  and  jested 
With  life  so,  De  Lorge  had  been  wooing 
For  months  past;  he  sat  there  pursuing 
His  suit,  weighing  out  with  nonchalance 
Fine  speeches  like  gold  from  a  balance. 

Sound  the  trumpet,  no  true  knight's  a  tarrier! 
De  Lorge  made  one  leap  at  the  barrier, 
Walked  straight  to  the  glove, — while  the  lion 
Ne'er  moved,  kept  his  far-reaching  eye  on 
The  palm-tree-edged  desert-spring's  sapphire, 
And  the  musky  oiled  skin  of  the  Kaffir, — 
Picked  it  up,  and  as  calmly  retreated, 
Leaped  back  where  the  lady  was  seated, 
And  full  in  the  face  of  its  owner 
Flung  the  glove. 

"Your  heart's  queen,  you  dethrone  her? 
So  should  I!" — cried  the  King — "  'twas  mere  vanity, 
Not  love,  set  that  task  to  humanity!" 
Lords  and  ladies  alike  turned  with  loathing 
From  such  a  proved  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing. 

Not  so,  I;  for  I  caught  an  expression 
In  her  brow's  undisturbed  self-possession 
Amid  the  Court's  scoffing  and  merriment, — 
As  if  from  no  pleasing  experiment 
She  rose,  yet  of  pain  not  much  heedful 
So  long  as  the  process  was  needful, — 
As  if  she  had  tried  in  a  crucible. 
To  what  "speeches  like  gold"  were  reducible, 
And,  finding  the  finest  prove  copper, 
Felt  the  smoke  in  her  face  was  but  proper; 
To  know  what  she  had  not  to  trust  to, 
Was  worth  all  the  ashes  and  dust  too. 
She  went  out  'mid  hooting  and  laughter; 
Clement  Marot  stayed;  I  followed  after, 
And  asked,  as  a  grace,  what  it  all  meant? 
If  she  wished  not  the  rash  deed's  recallment? 
"For  I" — so  I  spoke — "am  a  poet: 
Human  nature, — behoves  that  I  know  it!" 


86  ROBERT  BROWNING 

She  told  me,  "Too  long  had  I  heard 

Of  the  deed  proved  alone  by  the  word: 

For  my  love — what  De  Lorge  would  not  dare! 

With  my  scorn — what  De  Lorge  could  compare! 

And  the  endless  descriptions  of  death 

He  would  brave  when  my  lip  formed  a  breath, 

I  must  reckon  as  braved,  or,  of  course, 

Doubt  his  word — and  moreover,  perforce, 

For  such  gifts  as  no  lady  could  spurn, 

Must  offer  my  love  in  return. 

When  I  looked  on  your  lion,  it  brought 

All  the  dangers  at  once  to  my  thought, 

Encountered  by  all  sorts  of  men, 

Before  he  was  lodged  in  his  den, — 

From  the  poor  slave  whose  club  or  bare  hands 

Dug  the  trap,  set  the  snare  on  the  sands, 

With  no  King  and  no  Court  to  applaud, 

By  no  shame,  should  he  shrink,  overawed, 

Yet  to  capture  the  creature  made  shift, 

That  his  rude  boys  might  laugh  at  the  gift, 

—To  the  page  who  last  leaped  o'er  the  fence 

Of  the  pit,  on  no  greater  pretence 

Than  to  get  back  the  bonnet  he  dropped, 

Lest  his  pay  for  a  week  should  be  stopped. 

So,  wiser  I  judged  it  to  make 

One  trial  what  'death  for  my  sake' 

Really  meant,  while  the  power  was  yet  mine 

Than  to  wait  until  time  should  define 

Such  a  phase  not  so  simply  as  I, 

Who  took  it  to  mean  just  'to  die.' 

The  blow  a  glove  gives  is  but  weak: 

Does  ths  mark  yet  discolour  my  cheek? 

But  when  the  heart  suffers  a  blow, 

Will  the  pain  pass  so  soon,  do  you  know?" 

I  looked,  as  away  she  was  sweeping, 

And  saw  a  youth  eagerly  keeping 

As  close  as  he  dared  to  the  doorway. 

No  doubt  that  a  noble  should  more  weigh 

His  life  than  befits  a  plebeian; 

And  yet,  had  our  brute  been  Nemean — 

(I  judge  by  a  certain  calm  fervor 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  87 

The  youth  stepped  with,  forward  to  serve  her) 

— He'd  have  scarce  thought  you  did  him  the  worst  turn 

If  you  whispered  "Friend,  what  you'd  get,  first  earn!" 

And  when,  shortly  after,  she  carried 

Her  shame  from  the  Court,  and  they  married, 

To  that  marriage  some  happiness,  maugre 

The  voice  of  the  Court,  I  dared  augur. 

For  De  Lorge,  he  made  women  with  men  vie, 

Those  in  wonder  and  praise,  these  in  envy; 

And  in  short  stood  so  plain  a  head  taller 

That  he  wooed  and  won     .     .     .    how  do  you  call  her? 

The  beauty,  that  rose  in  the  sequel 

To  the  King's  love,  who  loved  her  a  week  well. 

And  'twas  noticed  he  never  would  honour 

De  Lorge  (who  looked  daggers  upon  her) 

With  the  easy  commission  of  stretching 

His  legs  in  the  service,  and  fetching 

His  wife,  from  her  chamber,  those  straying 

Sad  gloves  she  was  always  mislaying, 

While  the  King  took  the  closet  to  chat  in, — 

But  of  course  this  adventure  came  pat  in. 

And  never  the  King  told  the  story, 

How  bringing  a  glove  brought  such  glory, 

But  the  wife  smiled — "His  nerves  are  grown  firmer: 

Mine  he  brings  now  and  utters  no  murmur." 

Venienti  occiirritc  rnorbo.'1 

With  which  moral  I  drop  my  theorbo. 

(1845.) 

TIME'S  REVENGES 

I've  a  Friend,  over  the  sea; 

I  like  him,  but  he  loves  me. 

It  all  grew  out  of  the  books  I  write; 

They  find  such  favour  in  his  sight 

That  he  slaughters  you  with  savage  looks 

Because  you  don't  admire  my  books. 

1  Meet  the  disease  as  it  comes,  i.  e.,  Prevention  is  better   than 
cure. 


88  ROBERT  BROWNING 

He  does  himself  though, — and  if  some  vein 
Were  to  snap  to-night  in  this  heavy  brain, 
To-morrow  month,  if  I  lived  to  try, 
Round  should  I  just  turn  quietly, 
Or  out  of  the  bedclothes  stretch  my  hand 
Till  I  found  him,  come  from  his  foreign  land 
To  be  my  nurse  in  this  poor  place, 
And  make  my  broth,  and  wash  my  face 
And  light  my  fire  and,  all  the  while, 
Bear  with  his  old  good-humoured  smile 
That  I  told  him  "Better  have  kept  away 
Than  come  and  kill  me,  night  and  day, 
With,  worse  than  fever's  throbs  and  shoots, 
The  creaking  of  his  clumsy  boots." 
I  am  as  sure  that  this  he  would  do, 
As  that  Saint  Paul's  is  striking  two. 
And  I  think  I  had  rather  .    .    .   woe  is  me! 
— Yes,  rather  see  him  than  not  see, 
If  lifting  a  hand  could  seat  him  there 
Before  me  in  the  empty  chair 
To-night,  when  my  head  aches  indeed, 
And  I  can  neither  think  nor  read, 
And  make  these  purple  fingers  hold 
The  pen;  this  garret's  freezing  cold! 

And  I've  a  Lady — there  he  wakes, 

The  laughing  fiend  and  prince  of  snakes 

Within  me,  at  her  name,  to  pray 

Fate  send  some  creature  in  the  way 

Of  my  love  for  her,  to  be  down-torn, 

Upthrust  and  outward-borne, 

So  I  might  prove  myself  that  sea 

Of  passion  which  I  needs  must  be! 

Call  my  thoughts  false  and  my  fancies  quaint 

And  my  style  infirm  and  its  figures  faint, 

All  the  critics  say,  and  more  blame  yet, 

And  not  one  angry  word  you  get. 

But,  please  you,  wonder  I  would  put 

My  cheek  beneath  that  lady's  foot 

Rather  than  trample  under  mine 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  89 

The  laurels  of  the  Florentine,1 

And  you  shall  see  how  the  devil  spends 

A  fire  God  gave  for  other  ends! 

I  tell  you,  I  stride  up  and  down 

This  garret,  crowned  with  love's  best  crown, 

And  feasted  with  love's  perfect  feast, 

To  think  I  kill  for  her,  at  least, 

Body  and  soul  and  peace  and  fame, 

Alike  youth's  end  and  manhood's  aim, 

— So  is  my  spirit,  as  flesh  with  sin, 

Filled  full,  eaten  out  and  in 

With  the  face  of  her,  the  eyes  of  her, 

The  lips,  the  little  chin,  the  stir 

Of  shadow  round  her  mouth;  and  she 

— I'll  tell  you, — calmly  would  decree 

That  I  should  roast  at  a  slow  fire, 

If  that  would  compass  her  desire 

And  make  her  one  whom  they  invite 

To  the  famous  ball  to-morrow  night. 

There  may  be  heaven;  there  must  be  hell; 
Meantime,  there  is  our  Earth  here — well! 

(1845.) 


THE  ITALIAN  IN  ENGLAND 

That  second  time  they  hunted  me 

From  hill  to  plain,  from  shore  to  sea, 

And  Austria,  hounding  far  and  wide 

Her  blood-hounds  thro'  the  country-side, 

Breathed  hot  and  instant  on  my  trace, — 

I  made  six  days  a  hiding-place 

Of  that  dry  green  old  aqueduct 

Where  I  and  Charles,2  when  boys,  have  plucked 

1  Dante  Alighieri  (1265-1321). 

2  Charles  Albert,  Prince  of  Carignano,  born  in  1798  and  King  of 
Sardinia  from  1831  until  his  death  in  1849.     As  a  young  man  he  was 
sympathetic  with  the  Italians  in  their  attempts  to  throw  off  Austrian 
rule,  but  later  became  a  strong  anti-revolutionist. 


90  ROBERT  BROWNING 

The  fire-flies  from  the  roof  above, 
Bright  creeping  thro'  the  moss  they  love: 
— How  long  it  seems  since  Charles  was  lost! 
Six  days  the  soldiers  crossed  and  crossed 
The  country  in  my  very  sight; 
And  when  that  peril  ceased  at  night, 
The  sky  broke  out  in  red  dismay 
With  signal-fires;  well,  there  I  lay 
Close  covered  o'er  in  my  recess, 
Up  to  the  neck  in  ferns  and  cress, 
Thinking  on  Metternich1  our  friend, 
And  Charles's  miserable  end, 
And  much  beside,  two  days;  the  third, 
Hunger  o'ercame  me  when  I  heard 
The  peasants  from  the  village  go 
To  work  among  the  maize;  you  know, 
With  us  in  Lombardy,  they  bring 
Provisions  packed  on  mules,  a  string 
With  little  bells  that  cheer  their  task, 
And  casks,  and  boughs  on  every  cask 
To  keep  the  sun's  heat  from  the  wine; 
These  I  let  pass  in  jingling  line, 
And,  close  on  them,  dear  noisy  crew, 
The  peasants  from  the  village,  too; 
For  at  the  very  rear  would  troop 
Their  wives  and  sisters  in  a  group 
To  help,  I  knew.     When  these  had  passed, 
I  threw  my  glove  to  strike  the  last, 
Taking  the  chance:  she  did  not  start, 
Much  less  cry  out,  but  stooped  apart, 
One  instant  rapidly  glanced  round, 
And  saw  me  beckon  from  the  ground. 
A  wild  bush  grows  and  hides  my  crypt; 
She  picked  my  glove  up  while  she  stripped 
A  branch  off,  then  rejoined  the  rest 
With  that;  my  glove  lay  in  her  breast. 
Then  I  drew  breath;  they  disappeared: 
It  was  for  Italy  I  feared. 

1  Austrian  statesman  (1773-1859),  an  enemy  of  Italian  indepen- 
dence, referred  to  here  ironically  as  "our  friend. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  91 

An  hour,  and  she  returned  alone 
Exactly  where  my  glove  was  thrown. 
Meanwhile  came  many  thoughts;  on  me 
Rested  the  hopes  of  Italy. 
I  had  devised  a  certain  tale 
Which,  when  'twas  told  her,  could  not  fail 
Persuade  a  peasant  of  its  truth; 
I  meant  to  call  a  freak  of  youth 
This  hiding,  and  give  hopes  of  pay, 
And  no  temptation  to  betray. 
But  when  I  saw  that  woman's  face, 
Its  calm  simplicity  of  grace, 
Our  Italy's  own  attitude 
In  which  she  walked  thus  far,  and  stood, 
Planting  each  naked  foot  so  firm, 
To  crush  the  snake  and  spare  the  worm — 
At  first  sight  of  her  eyes,  I  said, 
"I  am  that  man  upon  whose  head 
They  fix  the  price,  because  I  hate 
The  Austrians  over  us:  the  State 
Will  give  you  gold — oh,  gold  so  much! — 
If  you  betray  me  to  their  clutch, 
And  be  your  death,  for  aught  I  know, 
If  once  they  find  you  saved  their  foe. 
Now,  you  must  bring  me  food  and  drink, 
And  also  paper,  pen,  and  ink, 
And  carry  safe  what  I  shall  write 
To  Padua,  which  you'll  reach  at  night 
Before  the  duomo  shuts;  go  in, 
And  wait  till  Tenebra?  begin; 
Walk  to  the  third  confessional, 
Between  the  pillar  and  the  wall, 
And  kneeling  whisper,  Whence  comes  peace? 
Say  it  a  second  time,  then  cease; 
And  if  the  voice  inside  returns, 
From  Christ  and  Freedom;  what  concerns 
The  cause  of  Peace? — for  answer,  slip 
My  letter  where  you  placed  your  lip; 
Then  come  back  happy  we  have  done 
Our  mother  service — I,  the  son, 
As  you  the  daughter  of  our  land!" 


92  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Three  mornings  more,  she  took  her  stand 
In  the  same  place,  with  the  same  eyes: 
I  was  no  surer  of  sun-rise 
Than  of  her  coming.     We  conferred 
Of  her  own  prospects,  and  I  heard 
She  had  a  lover — stout  and  tall, 
She  said — then  let  her  eyelids  fall, 
"He  could  do  much" — as  if  some  doubt 
Entered  her  heart, — then,  passing  out, 
"She  could  not  speak  for  others  who 
Had  other  thoughts;  herself  she  knew." 
And  so  she  brought  me  drink  and  food. 
After  four  days,  the  scouts  pursued 
Another  path;  at  last  arrived 
The  help  my  Paduan  friends  contrived 
To  furnish  me:  she  brought  the  news. 
For  the  first  time  I  could  not  choose 
But  kiss  her  hand,  and  lay  my  own 
Upon  her  head — "This  faith  was  shown 
To  Italy,  our  mother;  she 
Uses  my  hand  and  blesses  thee." 
She  followed  down  to  the  sea-shore; 
I  left  and  never  saw  her  more. 

How  very  long  since  I  have  thought 
Concerning — much  less  wished  for — aught 
Beside  the  good  of  Italy, 
For  which  I  live  and  mean  to  die! 
I  never  was  in  love;  and  since 
Charles  proved  false,  what  shall  now  convince 
My  inmost  heart  I  had  a  friend? 
However,  if  I  pleased  to  spend 
Real  wishes  on  myself — say,  three — 
I  know  at  least  what  one  should  be. 
I  would  grasp  Metternich  until 
I  felt  his  red  wet  throat  distil 
In  blood  thro'  these  two  hands.     And  next, 
— Nor  much  for  that  am  I  perplexed — 
Charles,  perjured  traitor,  for  his  part, 
Should  die  slow  of  a  broken  heart 
Under  his  new  employers.     Last 
— Ah,  there,  what  should  I  wish?     For  fast 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  93 

Do  I  grow  old  and  out  of  strength. 
If  I  resolved  to  seek  at  length 
My  father's  house  again,  how  scared 
They  all  would  look,  and  unprepared! 
My  brothers  live  in  Austria's  pay 
— Disowned  me  long  ago,  men  say; 
And  all  my  early  mates  who  used 
To  praise  me  so — perhaps  induced 
More  than  one  early  step  of  mine — 
Are  turning  wise:  while  some  opine 
"Freedom  grows  licence,"  some  suspect 
"Haste  breeds  delay,"  and  recollect 
They  always  said,  such  premature 
Beginnings  never  could  endure! 
So,  with  a  sullen  "All's  for  best," 
The  land  seems  settling  to  its  rest. 
I  think  then,  I  should  wish  to  stand 
This  evening  in  that  dear,  lost  land, 
Over  the  sea  the  thousand  miles, 
And  know  if  yet  that  woman  smiles 
With  the  calm  smile;  some  little  farm 
She  lives  in  there,  no  doubt :  what  harm 
If  I  sat  on  the  door-side  bench, 
And,  while  her  spindle  made  a  trench 
Fantastically  in  the  dust, 
Inquired  of  all  her  fortunes — just 
Her  children's  ages  and  their  names, 
And  what  may  be  the  husband's  aims 
For  each  of  them.     I'd  talk  this  out, 
And  sit  there,  for  an  hour  about, 
Then  kiss  her  hand  once  more,  and  lay 
Mine  on  her  head,  and  go  my  way. 

So  much  for  idle  wishing — how 
It  steals  the  time!    To  business  now. 

(1845.) 
IN  A  GONDOLA 

He  sings. 

I  send  my  heart  up  to  thee,  all  my  heart 

In  this  my  singing. 
For  the  stars  help  me,  and  the  sea  bears  part; 


94  ROBERT  BROWNING 

The  very  night  is  clinging 
Closer  to  Venice '  streets  to  leave  one  space 

Above  me,  whence  thy  face 
May  light  my  joyous  heart  to  thee  its  dwelling  place. 

She  speaks. 

Say  after  me,  and  try  to  say 

My  very  words,  as  if  each  word 

Came  from  you  of  your  own  accord, 

In  your  own  voice,  in  your  own  way: 

"This  woman's  heart  and  soul  and  brain 

Are  mine  as  much  as  this  gold  chain 

She  bids  me  wear;  which"  (say  again) 

"I  choose  to  make  by  cherishing 

A  precious  thing,  or  choose  to  fling 

Over  the  boat-side,  ring  by  ring." 

And  yet  once  more  say   ...   no  word  more ! 

Since  words  are  only  words.     Give  o'er! 

Unless  you  call  me,  all  the  same, 

Familiarly  by  my  pet  name, 

Which  if  the  Three  should  hear  you  call, 

And  me  reply  to,  would  proclaim 

At  once  our  secret  to  them  all. 

Ask  of  me,  too,  command  me,  blame — 

Do,  break  down  the  partition-wall 

'Twixt  us,  the  daylight  world  beholds 

Curtained  in  dusk  and  splendid  folds! 

What's  left  but — all  of  me  to  take? 

I  am  the  Three's:  prevent  them,  slake 

Your  thirst!     'T  is  said,  the  Arab  sage, 

In  practising  with  gems,  can  loose 

Their  subtle  spirit  in  his  cruce 

And  leave  but  ashes:  so,  sweet  mage, 

Leave  them  my  ashes   when  thy  use 

Sucks  out  my  soul,  thy  heritage! 

He  sirigs. 

Past  we  glide,  and  past,  and  past! 
What's  that  poor  Agnese  doing 
Where  they  make  the  shutters  fast? 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  95 

Gray  Zanobi's  just  a-wooing 
To  his  couch  the  purchased  bride: 
Past  we  glide! 

Past  we  glide,  and  past,  and  past! 

Why's  the  Pucci  Palace  flaring 
Like  a  beacon  to  the  blast? 

Guests  by  hundreds,  not  one  caring 
If  the  dear  host's  neck  were  wried: 

Past  we  glide! 

She  sings. 

The  moth's  kiss,  first! 

Kiss  me  as  if  you  made  believe 

You  were  not  sure,  this  eve, 

How  my  face,  your  flower,  had  pursed 

Its  petals  up;  so,  here  and  there 

You  brush  it,  till  I  grow  aware 

Who  wants  me,  and  wide  ope  I  burst. 

The  bee's  kiss,  now! 
Kiss  me  as  if  you  entered  gay 
My  heart  at  some  noonday, 
A  bud  that  dares  not  disallow 
The  claim,  so  all  is  rendered  up, 
And  passively  its  shattered  cup 
Over  your  head  to  sleep  I  bow. 

He  sings. 

What  are  we  two? 

I  am  a  Jew, 

And  carry  thee,  farther  than  friends  can  pursue, 

To  a  feast  of  our  tribe; 

Where  they  need  thee  to  bribe 

The  devil  that  blasts  them  unless  he  imbibe 

Thy  .    .    .  Scatter  the  vision  forever!     And  now, 

As  of  old,  I  am  I,  thou  art  thou! 

Say  again,  what  we  are? 

The  sprite  of  a  star, 

I  lure  thee  above  where  the  destinies  bar 


96  ROBERT  BROWNING 

My  plumes  their  full  play 

Till  a  ruddier  ray 

Than  my  pale  one  announce  there  is  withering  away 

Some   .    .    .  Scatter  the  vision  forever!     And  now, 

As  of  old,  I  am  I,  thou  art  thou! 

He  muses. 

Oh,  which  were  best,  to  roam  or  rest? 
The  land's  lap  or  the  water's  breast? 
To  sleep  on  yellow  millet-sheaves, 
Or  swim  in  lucid  shallows  just 
Eluding  water-lily  leaves, 
An  inch  from  Death's  black  fingers,  thrust 
To  lock  you,  whom  release  he  must; 
Which  life  were  best  on  Summer  eves? 

He  speaks,  musing. 

Lie  back;  could  thought  of  mine  improve  you? 

From  this  shoulder  let  there  spring 

A  iwing;  from  this,  another  wing; 

Wngs,  not  legs  and  feet,  shall  move  you! 

Snow-white  must  they  spring,  to  blend 

With  your  flesh,  but  I  intend 

They  shall  deepen  to  the  end, 

Broader,  into  burning  gold, 

Till  both  wings  crescent-wise  enfold 

Your  perfect  self,  from  'neath  your  feet 

To  o'er  your  head,  where,  lo,  they  meet 

As  if  a  million  sword-blades  hurled 

Defiance  from  you  to  the  world! 

Rescue  me  thou,  the  only  real! 
And  scare  away  this  mad  ideal 
That  came,  nor  motions  to  depart! 
Thanks!     Now,  stay  ever  as  thou  art! 

Still  he  muses. 

What  if  the  Three  should  catch  at  last 
Thy  serenader?     While  there  's  cast 
Paul's  cloak  about  my  head,  and  fast 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  97 

Gian  pinions  me,  Himself  has  past 
His  stylet  through  my  back;  I  reel; 
And   .    .    .   is  it  thou  I  feel? 

They  trail  me,  these  three  godless  knaves, 
Past  every  church  that  saints  and  saves, 
Nor  stop  till,  where  the  cold  sea  raves 
By  Lido's  wet  accursed  graves, 
They  scoop  mine,  roll  me  to  its  brink, 
And   ...   on  thy  breast  I  sink! 

She  replies,  musing. 

Dip  your  arm  o'er  the  boat-side,  elbow-deep, 

As  I  do:  thus:  were  death  so  unlike  sleep, 

Caught  this  way?     Death  's  to  fear  from  flame  or  steel, 

Or  poison  doubtless;  but  from  water — feel! 

Go  find  the  bottom!     Would  you  stay  me?     There! 

Now  pluck  a  great  blade  of  that  ribbon-grass 

To  plait  in  where  the  foolish  jewel  was, 

I  flung  away:  since  you  have  praised  my  hair, 

'T  is  proper  to  be  choice  in  what  I  wear. 

He  speaks. 

Row  home?  must  we  row  home?     Too  surely 

Know  I  where  its  front  's  demurely 

Over  the  Giudecca  piled; 

Window  just  with  window  mating, 

Door  on  door  exactly  waiting, 

All  's  the  set  face  of  a  child: 

But  behind  it,  where's  a  trace 

Of  the  staidness  and  reserve, 

And  formal  lines  without  a  curve, 

In  the  same  child's  playing-face? 

No  two  windows  look  one  way 

O'er  the  small  sea-water  thread 

Below  them.     Ah,  the  autumn  day 

I,  passing,  saw  you  overhead! 

First,  out  a  cloud  of  curtain  blew, 

Then  a  sweet  cry,  and  last  came  you — 

To  catch  your  lory  that  must  needs 

Escape  just  then,  of  all  times  then, 


98  ROBERT   BROWNING 

To  peck  a  tall  plant's  fleecy  seeds, 

And  make  me  happiest  of  men. 

I  scarce  could  breathe  to  sec  you  reach 

So  far  back  o'er  the  balcony 

To  catch  him  ere  he  climbed  too  high 

Above  you  in  the  Smyrna  peach, 

That  quick  the  round  smooth  cord  of  gold, 

This  coiled  hair  on  your  head,  unrolled, 

Fell  down  you  like  a  gorgeous  snake 

The  Roman  girls  were  wont,  of  old. 

When  Rome  there  was,  for  coolness'  sake 

To  let  lie  curling  o'er  their  bosoms. 

Dear  lory,  may  his  beak  retain 

Ever  its  delicate  rose  stain 

As  if  the  wounded  lotus-blossoms 

Had  marked  their  thief  to  know  again! 

Stay  longer  yet,  for  others'  sake 

Than  mine!     What  should  your  chamber  do? 

— With  all  its  rarities  that  ache 

In  silence  while  day  lasts,  but  wake 

At  night-time  and  their  life  renew, 

Suspended  just  to  pleasure  you 

Who  brought  against  their  will  together 

These  objects,  and,  while  da}'  lasts,  weave 

Around  them  such  a  magic  tether 

That  dumb  they  look:  your  harp,  believe, 

With  all  the  sensitive  tight  strings 

Which  dare  not  speak,  now  to  itself 

Breathes  slumberously,  as  if  some  elf 

Went  in  and  out  the  chords,  his  wings 

Make  murmur  whcrcso'er  they  graze, 

As  an  angel  may,  between  the  maze 

Of  midnight  palace-pillars,  on 

And  on,  to  sow  Clod's  plagues,  have  gone 

Through  guilty  glorious  Babylon. 

And  while  such  murmurs  flow,  the  nymph 

Bends  o'er  the  harp-top  from  her  shell 

As  the  dry  limpet  for  the  lymph 

Come  with  a  tune  he  knows  so  well. 

And  how  your  statues'  hearts  must  swell! 

And  how  your  pictures  must  descend 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  99 

To  sec  each  other,  friend  with  friend! 

Oh,  could  you  take  them  by  surprise, 

You  'd  find  Schidone's  eager  Duke 

Doing  the  quaintest  courtesies 

To  that  prim  saint  by  Haste-thce-Luke! 

And,  deeper  into  her  rock  den, 

Bold  Castelfranco's  Magdalen 

You'd  find  retreated  from  the  ken 

Of  that  robed  counsel-keeping  Ser — 

As  if  the  Tizian  thinks  of  her, 

And  is  not,  rather,  gravely  bent 

On  seeing  for  himself  what  toys 

Are  these,  his  progeny  invent, 

What  litter  now  the  board  employs 

Whereon  he  signed  a  document 

That  got  him  murdered!     Each  enjoys 

Its  night  so  well,  you  cannot  break 

The  sport  up,  so,  indeed  must  make 

More  stay  with  me,  for  others'  sake. 

She  speaks. 

To-morrow,  if  a  harp-string,  say, 
Is  used  to  tie  the  jasmine  "back 
That  overfloods  my  room  with  sweets, 
Contrive  your  Zorzi  somehow  meets 
My  Zanze!     If  the  ribbon's  black, 
The  Three  are  watching:  keep  away! 

Your  gondola— let  Zorzi  wreathe 

A  mesh  of  water-weeds  about 

Its  prow,  as  if  he  unaware 

Had  struck  some  quay  or  bridge-foot  stair! 

That  I  may  throw  a  paper  out 

As  you  and  he  go  underneath. 

There's  Zanze's  vigilant  taper;  safe  are  we. 

Only  one  minute  more  to-night  with  me? 

Resume  your  past  self  of  a  month  ago! 

Be  you  the  bashful  gallant,  I  will  be 

The  lady  with  the  colder  breast  than  snow. 

Now  bow  you,  as  becomes,  nor  touch  my  hand 

Italian  painters.     The  pictures  referred  to  are  imaginary. 


100  ROBERT  BROWNING 

More  than  I  touch  yours  when  I  step  to  land, 
And  say,  '"All  thanks,  Siora!"  Heart  to  heart — 
And  lips  to  lips!     Yet  once  more,  ere  we  part, 
Clasp  me  and  make  me  thine,  as  mine  thou  art! 

He  is  surprised,  and  stabbed. 

It  was  ordained  to  be  so,  sweet! — and  best 
Comes  now,  beneath  thine  eyes,  upon  thy  breast. 
Still  kiss  me!     Care  not  for  the  cowards!     Care 
Only  to  put  aside  thy  beauteous  hair 
My  blood  will  hurt!     The  Three,  I  do  not  scorn 
To  death,  because  they  never  lived :  but  I 
Have  lived  indeed,  and  so — (yet  one  more  kiss) — can  die! 

(1842.) 

THE   TWINS 

"GIVE"    AXD    "iT-SHALL-BE-GIVEX-UXTO-YOU" 

Grand  rough  old  Martin  Luther1 
Bloomed  fables — flowers  on  furze, 

The  better  the  uncouther: 
Do  roses  stick  like  burrs? 

A  beggar  asked  an  alms 

One  day  at  an  abbey-door, 
Said  Luther;  but,  seized  with  qualms, 

The  Abbot  replied,  "We're  poor! 

"Poor,  who  had  plenty  once, 

When  gifts  fell  thick  as  rain: 
But  they  give  us  naught,  for  the  nonce, 

And  how  should  we  give  again?" 

Then  the  boggar,  "See  your  sins! 

Of  old,  unless  I  err, 
Ye  had  brothers  for  inmates,  twins, 

Date  and  Dabitur. 

"While  Date  was  in  good  case 

Dabitur  flourished  too: 
For  Dabitur's  lenten  face 

No  wonder  if  Date  rue. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  101 

"Would  ye  retrieve  the  one? 

Try  and  make  plump  the  other! 
When  Date's  penance  is  done, 

Dabitur  helps  his  brother. 

"Only,  beware  relapse!" 

The  Abbot  hung  his  head. 
This  beggar  might  be  perhaps 
An  angel,  Luther  said. 

(1854.) 
1  (1483.1546.)  A  loader  of  the  Protestant  Reformation. 

A  LIGHT  WOMAN 

So  far  as  our  story  approaches  the  end, 
Which  do  you  pity  the  most  of  us  three? — 

My  friend,  or  the  mistress  of  my  friend 
With  her  wanton  eyes,  or  me? 

My  friend  was  already  too  good  to  lose, 
And  seemed  in  the  way  of  improvement  yet, 

When  she  crossed  his  path  with  her  hunting-noose 
And  over  him  drew  her  net. 

When  I  saw  him  tangled  in  her  toils, 

A  shame,  said  I,  if  she  adds  just  him 
To  her  nine-and-ninety  other  spoils, 

The  hundredth  for  a  whim! 

And  before  my  friend  be  wholly  hers, 

How  easy  to  prove  to  him,  I  said, 
An  eagle's  the  game  her  pride  prefers, 

Though  she  snaps  at  a  wren  instead! 

So,  I  gave  her  eyes  my  own  eyes  to  take, 
My  hand  sought  hers  as  in  earnest  need, 

And  round  she  turned  for  my  noble  sake, 
And  gave  me  herself  indeed. 

The  eagle  am  I,  with  my  fame  in  the  world, 

The  wren  is  he,  with  his  maiden  face. 
—You  look  away  and  your  lip  is  curled? 

Patience,  a  moment's  space! 


102  ROBERT  BROWNING 

For  see,  my  friend  goes  shaking  and  white; 

He  eyes  me  as  the  basilisk: 
I  have  turned,  it  appears,  his  day  to  night, 

Eclipsing  his  sun's  disc. 

And  I  did  it,  he  thinks,  as  a  very  thief: 

"Though  I  love  her — that,  he  comprehends — 

One  should  master  one's  passions,  (love,  in  chief) 
And  be  loyal  to  one's  friends!" 

And  she, — she  lies  in  my  hand  as  tame 

As  a  pear  late  basking  over  a  wall; 
Just  a  touch  to  try  and  off  it  came; 

Tis  mine,— can  I  let  it  fall? 

With  no  mind  to  eat  it,  that's  the  worst! 

Were  it  thrown  in  the  road,  would  the  case  assist? 
'Twas  quenching  a  dozen  blue-flies'  thirst 

When  I  gave  its  stalk  a  twist. 

And  I, — what  I  seem  to  my  friend,  you  see: 
What  I  soon  shall  seem  to  his  love,  you  guess: 

What  I  seem  to  myself,  do  you  ask  of  me? 
No  hero,  I  confess. 

'Tis  an  awkward  thing  to  play  with  souls, 
And  matter  enough  to  save  one's  own: 

Yet  think  of  my  friend,  and  the  burning  coals 
He  played  with  for  bits  of  stone! 

One  likes  to  show  the  truth  for  the  truth; 

That  the  woman  was  light  is  very  true: 
But  suppose  she  says, — Never  mind  that  youth! 

What  wrong  have  I  done  to  you? 

Well,  anyhow,  here  the  story  stays, 

So  far  at  least  as  I  understand; 
And,  Robert  Browning,  you  writer  of  plays, 

Here's  a  subject  made  your  hand! 

(1855.) 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  103 

THE   LAST   RIDE  TOGETHER 

I  said — Then,  dearest,  since  't  is  so, 
Since  now  at  length  my  fate  I  know, 
Since  nothing  all  my  love  avails, 
Since  all,  my  life  seemed  meant  for,  fails, 

Since  this  was  written  and  needs  must  be — 
My  whole  heart  rises  up  to  bless 
Your  name  in  pride  and  thankfulness! 
Take  back  the  hope  you  gave, — I  claim 
Only  a  memory  of  the  same, 
— And  this  beside,  if  you  will  not  blame, 

Your  leave  for  one  more  last  ride  with  me. 

My  mistress  bent  that  brow  of  hers; 
Those  deep  dark  eyes  where  pride  demurs 
When  pity  would  be  softening  through, 
Fixed  me  a  breathing-while  or  two 

With  life  or  death  in  the  balance:  right! 
The  blood  replenished  me  again; 
My  last  thought  was  at  least  not  vain: 
I  and  my  mistress,  side  by  side 
Shall  be  together,  breathe  and  ride, 
So,  one  day  more  am  I  deified. 

Who  knows  but  the  world  may  end  to-night? 

Hush!  if  you  saw  some  western  cloud 

All  billowy-bosomed,  over-bowed 

By  many  benedictions — sun's 

And  moon's  and  evening-star's  at  once — 

And  so,  you.  looking  and  loving  best, 
Conscious  grew,  your  passion  drew 
Cloud,  sunset,  moonrise,  star-shine  too, 
Down  on  you,  near  and  yet  more  near, 
Till  flesh  must  fade  for  heaven  was  here! — 
Thus  leant  she  and  lingered — joy  and  fear! 

Thus  lay  she  a  moment  on  my  breast 

Then  we  began  to  ride.     My  soul 
Smoothed  itself  out,  a  long-cramped  scroll 
Freshening  and  fluttering  in  the  wind. 


104  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Past  hopes  already  lay  behind. 

What  need  to  strive  with  a  life  awry? 
Had  I  said  that,  had  I  done  this, 
So  might  I  gain,  so  might  I  miss. 
Might  she  have  loved  me?  just  as  well 
She  might  have  hated,  who  can  tell! 
Where  had  I  been  now  if  the  worst  befell? 

And  here  we  are  riding,  she  and  I. 

Fail  I  alone,  in  words  and  deeds? 
Why,  all  men  strive,  and  who  succeeds? 
We  rode;  it  seemed  my  spirit  flew, 
Saw  other  regions,  cities  new, 

As  the  world  rushed  by  on  either  side. 
I  thought, — All  labor,  yet  no  less 
Bear  up  beneath  their  unsuccess. 
Look  at  the  end  of  work,  contrast 
The  petty  done,  the  undone  vast, 
This  present  of  theirs  with  the  hopeful  past? 

I  hoped  she  would  love  me;  here  we  ride. 

What  hand  and  brain  went  ever  paired? 
What  heart  alike  conceived  and  dared? 
What  act  proved  all  its  thought  had  been? 
What  will  but  felt  the  fleshly  screen? 

We  ride  and  I  see  her  bosom  heave. 
There's  many  a  crown  for  who  can  reach. 
Ten  lines,  a  statesman's  life  in  each! 
The  flag  stuck  on  a  heap  of  bones, 
A  soldier's  doing!  what  atones? 
They  scratch  his  name  on  the  Abbey-stones. 

My  riding  is  better,  by  their  leave. 

What  does  it  all  mean,  poet?     Well, 
Your  brains  beat  into  rhythm,  you  tell 
What  we  felt  only;  you  expressed 
You  hold  things  beautiful  the  best, 

And  place  them  in  rhyme  so,  side  by  side. 
'T  is  something,  nay  't  is  much:  but  then, 
Have  vou  yourself  what's  best  for  men? 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  105 

Are  you — poor,  sick,  old  ere  your  time — 
Nearer  one  whit  your  own  sublime 
Than  we  who  never  have  turned  a  rhyme? 
Sing,  riding's  a  joy!    For  me,  I  ride. 

And  you,  great  sculptor — so,  you  gave 
A  score  of  years  to  Art,  her  slave, 
And  that's  your  Venus,  whence  we  turn 
To  yonder  girl  that  fords  the  burn ! 

You  acquiesce,  and  shall  I  repine? 
What,  man  of  music,  you  grown  gray 
With  notes  and  nothing  else  to  say, 
Is  this  your  sole  praise  from  a  friend, 
"Greatly  his  opera's  strains  intend, 
But  in  music  we  know  how  fashions  end!" 

I  gave  my  youth;  but  we  ride,  in  fine. 

Who  knows  what's  fit  for  us?     Had  fate 
Proposed  bliss  here  should  sublimate 
My  being — had  I  signed  the  bond — 
Still  one  must  lead  some  life  beyond, 

Have  a  bliss  to  die  with,  dim-descried. 
This  foot  once  planted  on  the  goal, 
This  glory-garland  round  my  soul, 
Could  I  descry  such?     Try  and  test! 
I  sink  back  shuddering  from  the  quest. 
Earth  being  so  good,  would  heaven  seem  best? 

Now,  heaven  and  she  are  beyond  this  ride.. 

And  yet — she  has  not  spoke  so  long! 
What  if  heaven  be  that,  fair  and  strong 
At  life's  best,  with  our  eyes  upturned 
Whither  life's  flower  is  first  discerned, 

We,  fixed  so,  ever  should  so  abide? 
What  if  we  still  ride  on,  we  two, 
With  life  forever  old  yet  new, 
Changed  not  in  kind  but  in  degree, 
The  instant  made  eternity. — 
And  heaven  just  prove  that  I  and  she 

Ride,  ride  together,  forever  ride? 

(1855.) 


106  ROBERT  BROWNING 

THE   PIED   PIPER  OF  HAMELIN 

A  CHILD'S  STORY 
{Written  for,  and  inscribed  to,  W.  M.  the  Younger) 

Hamelin  Town's  in  Brunswick, 
By  famous  Hanover  city; 

The  river  Weser,  deep  and  wide, 

Washes  its  wall  on  the  southern  side; 

A  pleasanter  spot  you  never  spied; 
But,  when  begins  my  ditty, 

Almost  five  hundred  years  ago, 

To  see  the  townsfolk  suffer  so 
From  vermin,  was  a  pity. 

ii 

Rats! 
They  fought  the  dogs  and  killed  the  cats, 

And  bit  the  babies  in  the  cradles, 
And  ate  the  cheeses  out  of  the  vats, 

And  licked  the  soup  from  the  cooks '  own  ladles, 
Split  open  the  kegs  of  salted  sprats, 
Made  nests  inside  men's  Sunday  hats, 
And  even  spoiled  the  women's  chats 

By  drowning  their  speaking 

With  shrieking  and  squeaking 
In  fifty  different  sharps  and  flats. 

in 

At  last  the  people  in  a  body 

To  the  Town  Hall  came  flocking: 
'  'Tis  clear,"  cried  the}',  "our  Mayor's  a  noddy; 

And  as  for  our  Corporation — shocking 
To  think  we  buy  gowns  lined  with  ermine 
For  dolts  that  can't  or  won't  determine 
What's  best  to  rid  us  of  our  vermin! 
You  hope,  because  you're  old  and  obese, 
To  find  in  the  furry  civic  robe  ease? 
Rouse  up,  sirs!     Give  your  brains  a  racking 
To  find  the  remedy  we're  lacking, 
Or,  sure  as  fate,  we'll  send  you  packing!'' 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  107 

At  this  the  Mayor  and  Corporation 
Quaked  with  a  mighty  consternation. 

IV 

An  hour  they  sat  in  council; 

At  length  the  Mayor  broke  silence: 
"For  a  guilder  I'd  my  ermine  gown  sell, 

I  wish  I  were  a  mile  hence! 
It's  easy  to  bid  one  rack  one's  brain — • 
I'm  sure  my  poor  head  aches  again, 
I've  scratched  it  so,  and  all  in  vain. 
Oh  for  a  trap,  a  trap,  a  trap!" 
Just  as  he  said  this,  what  should  hap 
At  the  chamber-door  but  a  gentle  tap? 
"Bless  us,"  cried  the  Mayor,  "what's  that?" 
(With  the  Corporation  as  he  sat, 
Looking  little  though  wondrous  fat; 
Nor  brighter  was  his  eye,  nor  moister 
Than  a  too-long-opened  oyster, 
Save  when  at  noon  his  paunch  grew  mutinous 
For  a  plate  of  turtle  green  and  glutinous) 
"Only  a  scraping  of  shoes  on  the  mat? 
Anything  like  the  sound  of  a  rat 
Makes  my  heart  go  pit-a-pat!" 


"Come  in!" — the  Mayor  cried,  looking  bigger: 

And  in  did  come  the  strangest  figure! 

His  queer  long  coat  from  heel  to  head 

Was  half  of  yellow  and  half  of  red, 

And  he  himself  was  tall  and  thin, 

With  sharp  blue  eyes,  each  like  a  pin, 

And  light  loose  hair,  yet  swarthy  skin, 

No  tuft  on  cheek  nor  beard  on  chin, 

But  lips  where  smiles  went  out  and  in; 

There  was  no  guessing  his  kith  and  kin: 

And  nobody  could  enough  admire 

The  tall  man  and  his  quaint  attire. 

Quoth  one:  "It's  as  my  great-grandsire, 

Starting  up  at  the  Trump  of  Doom's  tone, 

Had  walked  this  way  from  his  painted  tombstone!" 


108  ROBERT  BROWNING 

VI 

He  advanced  to  the  council-table: 

And,  "Please  your  honors,"  said  he,  "I'm  able, 

By  means  of  a  secret  charm,  to  draw 

All  creatures  living  beneath  the  sun, 

That  creep  or  swim  or  fly  or  run, 

After  me  so  as  you  never  saw! 

And  I  chiefly  use  my  charm 

On  creatures  that  do  people  harm, 

The  mole  and  toad  and  newt  and  viper; 

And  people  call  me  the  Pied  Piper." 

(And  here  they  noticed  round  his  neck 

A  scarf  of  red  and  yellow  stripe, 

To  match  with  his  coat  of  the  self -same  cheque; 

And  at  the  scarf's  end  hung  a  pipe; 

And  his  fingers,  they  noticed,  were  ever  straying 

As  if  impatient  to  be  playing 

Upon  this  pipe,  as  low  it  dangled 

Over  his  vesture  so  old-fangled.) 

"Yet,"  said  he,  "poor  piper  as  I  am, 

In  Tartary  I  freed  the  Cham, 

Last  June,  from  his  huge  swarms  of  gnats; 

I  eased  in  Asia  the  Nizam 

Of  a  monstrous  brood  of  vampire-bats : 

And  as  for  what  your  brain  bewilders, 

If  I  can  rid  your  town  of  rats 

Will  you  give  me  a  thousand  guilders?" 

"One?  fifty  thousand!" — was  the  exclamation 

Of  the  astonished  Mayor  and  Corporation. 

VII 

Into  the  street  the  Piper  stept, 

Smiling  first  a  little  smile, 
As  if  he  knew  what  magic  slept 

In  his  quiet  pipe  the  while; 
Then,  like  a  musical  adept, 
To  blow  the  pipe  his  lips  he  wrinkled, 
And  green  and  blue  his  sharp  eyes  twinkled, 
Like  a  candle-flame  where  salt  is  sprinkled; 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  109 

And  ere  three  shrill  notes  the  pipe  uttered, 
You  heard  as  if  an  army  muttered; 
And  the  muttering  grew  to  a  grumbling; 
And  the  grumbling  grew  to  a  mighty  rumbling; 
And  out  of  the  houses  the  rats  came  tumbling. 
Great  rats,  small  rats,  lean  rats,  brawny  rats, 
Brown  rats,  black  rats,  gray  rats,  tawny  rats, 
Grave  old  plodders,  gay  young  friskers, 

Fathers,  mothers,  uncles,  cousins, 
Cocking  tails  and  pricking  whiskers, 

Families  by  tens  and  dozens, 
Brothers,  sisters,  husbands,  wives — 
Followed  the  Piper  for  their  lives. 
From  street  to  street  he  piped  advancing, 
And  step  for  step  they  followed  dancing, 
Until  they  came  to  the  river  Weser, 
Wherein  all  plunged  and  perished! 
— Save  one  who,  stout  as  Julius  Csesar, 
Swam  across  and  lived  to  carry 
(As  he,  the  manuscript  he  cherished) 
To  Rat-land  home  his  commentary: 
Which  was,  "At  the  first  shrill  notes  of  the  pipe, 
I  heard  a  sound  as  of  scraping  tripe, 
And  putting  apples,  wondrous  ripe, 
Into  a  cider-press's  gripe: 
And  a  moving  away  of  pickle-tub-boards, 
And  a  leaving  ajar  of  conserve-cupboards, 
And  a  drawing  the  corks  of  train-oil-flasks, 
And  a  breaking  the  hoops  of  butter-casks: 
And  it  seemed  as  if  a  voice 
(Sweeter  far  than  by  harp  or  by  psaltery 
Is  breathed)  called  out,  'Oh  rats,  rejoice! 
The  world  is  grown  to  one  vast  drysaltery! 
So  munch  on,  crunch  on,  take  your  nuncheon, 
Breakfast,  supper,  dinner,  luncheon!' 
And  just  as  a  bulky  sugar-puncheon, 
All  ready  staved,  like  a  great  sun  shone 
Glorious  scarce  an  inch  before  me, 
Just  as  methought  it  said,  'Come,  bore  me!' 
—I  found  the  Weser  rolling  o'er  me." 


110  ROBERT  BROWNING 

VIII 

You  should  have  heard  the  Hamelin  people 

Ringing  the  bells  till  they  rocked  the  steeple. 

"Go,"  cried  the  Mayor,  "and  get  long  poles, 

Poke  out  the  nests  and  block  up  the  holes ! 

Consult  with  carpenters  and  builders, 

And  leave  in  our  town  not  even  a  trace 

Of  the  rats!" — when  suddenly,  up  the  face 

Of  the  Piper  perked  in  the  market-place, 

With  a,  "First,  if  you  please,  my  thousand  guilders!" 

IX 

A  thousand  guilders!    The  Mayor  looked  blue; 

So  did  the  Corporation  too. 

For  council  dinners  made  rare  havoc 

With  Claret,  Moselle,  Vin-de-Grave,  Hock; 

And  half  the  money  would  replenish 

Their  cellar's  biggest  butt  with  Rhenish. 

To  pay  this  sum  to  a  wandering  fellow 

With  a  gyspy  coat  of  red  and  yellow! 

"Beside,"  quoth  the  Mayor  with  a  knowing  wink, 

"Our  business  was  done  at  the  river's  brink; 

We  saw  with  our  eyes  the  vermin  sink, 

And  what's  dead  can't  come  to  life,  I  think. 

So,  friend,  we're  not  the  folks  to  shrink 

From  the  duty  of  giving  you  something  for  drink, 

And  a  matter  of  money  to  put  in  your  poke; 

But  as  for  the  guilders,  what  we  spoke 

Of  them,  as  you  very  well  know,  was  in  joke. 

Beside,  our  losses  have  made  us  thrifty. 

A  thousand  guilders!     Come,  take  fifty!" 


The  Piper's  face  fell,  and  he  cried, 

"No  trifling!     I  can't  wait,  beside! 

I've  promised  to  visit  by  dinner  time 

Bagdat,  and  accept  the  prime 

Of  the  Head-Cook's  pottage,  all  he's  rich  in, 

For  having  left,  in  the  Caliph's  kitchen, 

Of  a  nest  of  scorpions  no  survivor: 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  111 

With  him  I  proved  no  bargain-driver, 
With  you,  don't  think  I'll  bate  a  stiver! 
And  folks  who  put  me  in  a  passion 
May  find  me  pipe  after  another  fashion." 

XI 

"How?"  cried  the  Mayor,  "d'ye  think  I  brook 

Being  worse  treated  than  a  Cook? 

Insulted  by  a  lazy  ribald 

With  idle  pipe  and  vesture  piebald? 

You  threaten  us,  fellow?     Do  your  worst, 

Blow  your  pipe  there  till  you  burst!" 

XII 

Once  more  he  stept  into  the  street, 

And  to  his  lips  again 
Laid  his  long  pipe  of  smooth  straight  cane; 

And  ere  he  blew  three  notes  (such  sweet 
Soft  notes  as  yet  musician's  cunning 

Never  gave  the  enraptured  air) 
There  was  a  rustling  that  seemed  like  a  bustling 
Of  merry  crowds  justling  at  pitching  and  hustling; 
Small  feet  were  pattering,  wooden  shoes  clattering, 
Little  hands  clapping  and  little  tongues  chattering, 
And,  like  fowls  in  a  farm-yard  when  barley  is  scattering, 
Out  came  the  children  running. 
All  the  little  boys  and  girls, 
With  rosy  cheeks  and  flaxen  curls, 
And  sparkling  eyes  and  teeth  like  pearls, 
Tripping  and  skipping,  ran  merrily  after 
The  wonderful  music  with  shouting  and  laughter. 

XIII 

The  Mayor  was  dumb,  and  the  Council  stood 

As  if  they  were  changed  into  blocks  of  wood, 

Unable  to  move  a  step,  or  cry 

To  the  children  merrily  skipping  by, 

— Could  only  follow  with  the  eye 

That  joyous  crowd  at  the  Piper's  back. 

But  how  the  Mayor  was  on  the  rack, 


112  ROBERT  BROWNING 

And  the  wretched  Council's  bosoms  beat, 

As  the  Piper  turned  from  the  High  Street 

To  where  the  Weser  rolled  its  waters 

Right  in  the  way  of  their  sons  and  daughters! 

However,  he  turned  from  South  to  West, 

And  to  Koppelberg  Hill  his  steps  addressed, 

And  after  him  the  children  pressed; 

Great  was  the  joy  in  every  breast. 

"He  never  can  cross  that  mighty  top! 

He's  forced  to  let  the  piping  drop, 

And  we  shall  see  our  children  stop!" 

When,  lo,  as  they  reached  the  mountain-side, 

A  wondrous  portal  opened  wide, 

As  if  a  cavern  was  suddenly  hollowed ; 

And  the  Piper  advanced  and  the  children  followed, 

And  when  all  were  in  to  the  very  last, 

The  door  in  the  mountain-side  shut  fast. 

Did  I  say,  all?     No!     One  was  lame, 

And  could  not  dance  the  whole  of  the  way; 

And  in  after  years,  if  you  would  blame 

His  sadness,  he  was  used  to  say, — 

"It's  dull  in  our  town  since  my  playmates  left! 

I  can't  forget  that  I'm  bereft 

Of  all  the  pleasant  sights  they  see, 

Which  the  Piper  also  promised  me. 

For  he  led  us,  he  said,  to  a  joyous  land, 

Joining  the  town  and  just  at  hand, 

Where  waters  gushed  and  fruit-trees  grew 

And  flowers  put  forth  a  fairer  hue, 

And  everything  was  strange  and  new; 

The  sparrows  were  brighter  than  peacocks  here, 

And  their  dogs  outran  our  fallow  deer, 

And  honey-bees  had  lost  their  stings, 

And  horses  were  born  with  eagles'  wings: 

And  just  as  I  became  assured 

My  lame  foot  would  be  speedily  cured, 

The  music  stopped  and  I  stood  still, 

And  found  myself  outside  the  hill, 

Left  alone  against  my  will, 

To  go  now  limping  as  before, 

And  never  hear  of  that  country  more!" 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  113 

XIV 

Alas,  alas  for  Hamelin! 

There  came  into  many  a  burgher's  pate 

A  text  which  says  that  heaven's  gate 

Opes  to  the  rich  at  as  easy  rate 
As  the  needle's  eye  takes  a  camel  in! 
The  Mayor  sent  East,  West,  North  and  South, 
To  offer  the  Piper,  by  word  of  mouth, 

Wherever  it  was  men's  lot  to  find  him, 
Silver  and  gold  to  his  heart's  content, 
If  he'd  only  return  the  way  he  went, 

And  bring  the  children  behind  him. 
But  when  they  saw  't  was  a  lost  endeavor, 
And  Piper  and  dancers  were  gone  forever, 
They  made  a  decree  that  lawyers  never 

Should  think  their  records  dated  duly 
If,  after  the  day  of  the  month  and  year, 
These  words  did  not  as  well  appear, 
"And  so  long  after  what  happened  here 

On  the  Twenty-second  of  July, 
Thirteen  hundred  and  seventy-six:" 
And  the  better  in  memory  to  fix 
The  place  of  the  children's  last  retreat, 
They  called  it,  the  Pied  Piper's  Street— 
Where  any  one  played  on  pipe  or  tabor 
Was  sure  for  the  future  to  lose  his  labor. 
Nor  suffered  they  hostelry  or  tavern 

To  shock  with  mirth  a  street  so  solemn; 
But  opposite  the  place  of  the  cavern 

They  wrote  the  story  on  a  column, 
And  on  the  great  church-window  painted 
The  same,  to  make  the  world  acquainted 
How  their  children  were  stolen  away, 
And  there  it  stands  to  this  very  day. 
And  I  must  not  omit  to  say 
That  in  Transylvania  there's  a  tribe 
Of  alien  people  who  ascribe 
The  outlandish  ways  and  dress 
On  which  their  neighbors  lay  such  stress, 
To  their  fathers  and  mothers  having  risen 
Out  of  some  subterraneous  prison 


114  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Into  which  they  were  trepanned 
Long  time  ago  in  a  mighty  band 
Out  of  Hamelin  town  in  Brunswick  land, 
But  how  or  why,  they  don't  understand. 

xv 

So,  Willy,  let  me  and  you  be  wipers 
Of  scores  out  with  all  men — especially  pipers! 
And,  whether  they  pipe  us  free  from  rats  or  from  mice, 
If  we've  promised  them  aught,  let  us  keep  our  promise! 

(1842.) 

A  GRAMMARIAN'S   FUNERAL 

SHORTLY   AFTER   THE    REVIVAL    OF    LEARNING   IN    EUROPE 

Let  us  begin  and  carry  up  this  corpse, 

Singing  together. 
Leave  we  the  common  crofts,  the  vulgar  thorpes 

Each  in  its  tether 
Sleeping  safe  on  the  bosom  of  the  plain, 

Cared-for  till  cock-crow: 
Look  out  if  yonder  be  not  day  again 

Rimming  the  rock-row! 
That's  the  appropriate  country;  there,  man's  thought, 

Rarer,  intenser, 
Self-gathered  for  an  outbreak,  as  it  ought, 

Chafes  in  the  censer. 
Leave  we  the  unlettered  plain  its  herd  and  crop; 

Seek  we  sepulture 
On  a  tall  mountain,  citied  to  the  top, 

Crowded  with  culture! 
All  the  peaks  soar,  but  one  the  rest  excels; 

Clouds  overcome  it ; 
No!  yonder  sparkle  is  the  citadel's 

Circling  its  summit. 
Thither  our  path  lies;  wind  we  up  the  heights; 

Wait  ye  the  warning? 
Our  low  life  was  the  level's  and  the  night's; 

He's  for  the  morning. 
Step  to  a  tune,  square  chests,  erect  each  head, 

'Ware  the  beholders! 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  115 

This  is  our  master,  famous  calm  and  dead, 
Borne  on  our  shoulders. 

Sleep,  crop  and  herd!  sleep,  darkling  thorpe  and  croft, 

Safe  from  the  weather! 
He,  whom  we  convoy  to  his  grave  aloft, 

Singing  together, 
He  was  a  man  born  with  thy  face  and  throat, 

Lyric  Apollo! 
Long  he  lived  nameless :  how  should  spring  take  note 

Winter  would  follow? 
Till  lo,  the  little  touch,  and  youth  was  gone! 

Cramped  and  diminished, 
Moaned  he,  "New  measures,  other  feet  anon! 

My  dance  is  finished?" 
No,  that's  the  world's  way:  (keep  the  mountain-side, 

Make  for  the  city!) 
He  knew  the  signal,  and  stepped  on  with  pride 

Over  men's  pity; 
Left  play  for  work,  and  grappled  with  the  world 

Bent  on  escaping: 
'What's  in  the  scroll,"  quoth  he,  "thou  keepest  furled? 

Shew  me  their  shaping, 
Theirs  who  most  studied  man,  the  bard  and  sage, — 

Give!" — So,  he  gowned  him, 
Straight  got  by  heart  that  book  to  its  last  page: 

Learned,  we  found  him. 
Yea,  but  we  found  him  bald  too — eyes  like  lead, 

Accents  uncertain: 
"Time  to  taste  life,"  another  would  have  said, 

"Up  with  the  curtain!" 
This  man  said  rather,  "Actual  life  comes  next? 

Patience  a  moment! 
Grant  I  have  mastered  learning's  crabbed  text, 

Still,  there's  the  comment. 
Let  me  know  all !     Prate  not  of  most  or  least, 

Painful  or  easy! 
Even  to  the  crumbs  I'd  fain  eat  up  the  feast, 

Ay,  nor  feel  queasy." 
Oh,  such  a  life  as  he  resolved  to  live, 

When  he  had  learned  it, 


116  ROBERT  BROWNING 

When  he  had  gathered  all  books  had  to  give! 

Sooner,  he  spurned  it. 
Image  the  whole,  then  execute  the  parts — 

Fancy  the  fabric 
Quite,  ere  you  build,  ere  steel  strike  fire  from  quartz, 

Ere  mortar  dab  brick! 

(Here's  the  town-gate  reached:  there's  the  market-place 

Gaping  before  us.) 
Yea,  this  in  him  was  the  peculiar  grace 

(Hearten  our  chorus!) 
That  before  living  he'd  learn  how  to  live — 

No  end  to  learning: 
Earn  the  means  first — God  surely  will  contrive 

Use  for  our  earning. 
Others  mistrust  and  say,  "But  time  escapes: 

Live  now  or  never!" 
He  said,  "What's  time?  leave  Now  for  dogs  and  apes! 

Man  has  Forever." 
Back  to  his  book  then:  deeper  drooped  his  head: 

Calculus  racked  him: 
Leaden  before,  his  eyes  grew  dross  of  lead: 

Tussis  attacked  him. 
"Now,  Master,  take  a  little  rest!" — not  he! 

(Caution  redoubled, 
Step  two  abreast,  the  way  winds  narrowly!) 

Not  a  whit  troubled 
Back  to  his  studies,  fresher  than  at  first, 

Fierce  as  a  dragon 
He  (soul-hydroptic  with  a  sacred  thirst) 

Sucked  at  the  flagon. 
Oh,  if  we  draw  a  circle  premature, 

Heedless  of  far  gain, 
Greedy  for  quick  returns  of  profit,  sure 

Bad  is  our  bargain! 
Was  it  not  great?  did  not  he  throw  on  God, 

(He  loves  the  burthen) — 
God's  task  to  make  the  heavenly  period 

Perfect  the  earthen? 
Did  not  he  magnify  the  mind,  show  clear 

Just  what  it  all  meant? 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  117 

He  would  not  discount  life,  as  fools  do  here, 

Paid  by  instalment. 
He  ventured  neck  or  nothing — heaven's  success 

Found,  or  earth's  failure: 
"Wilt  thou  trust  death  or  not?"     He  answered  "Yes: 

Hence  with  life's  pale  lure!" 
That  low  man  seeks  a  little  thing  to  do, 

Sees  it  and  does  it: 
This  high  man,  with  a  great  thing  to  pursue, 

Dies  ere  he  knows  it. 
That  low  man  goes  on  adding  one  to  one, 

His  hundred's  soon  hit : 
This  high  man,  aiming  at  a  million, 

Misses  an  unit. 
That,  has  the  world  here — should  he  need  the  next, 

Let  the  world  mind  him! 
This,  throws  himself  on  God,  and  unperplexed 

Seeking  shall  find  him. 
So,  with  the  throttling  hands  of  death  at  strife, 

Ground  he  at  grammar; 
Still,  thro'  the  rattle,  parts  of  speech  were  rife: 

While  he  could  stammer 
He  settled  Hoti's1  business — let  it  be! — 

Properly  based  Own1 — 
Gave  us  the  doctrine  of  the  enclitic  Del, 

Dead  from  the  waist  down. 
Well,  here's  the  platform,  here's  the  proper  place: 

Hail  to  your  purlieus, 
All  ye  highfliers  of  the  feathered  race, 

Swallows  and  curlews! 
Here's  the  top-peak;  the  multitude  below 

Live,  for  they  can,  there: 
This  man  decided  not  to  Live  but  Know — 

Bury  this  man  there? 
Here — here's  his  place,  where  meteors  shoot,  clouds  form, 

Lightnings  are  loosened, 
Stars  come  and  go!  let  joy  break  with  the  storm, 

Peace  let  the  dew  send! 

lHoli,  oun,  de,  are  Greek  words  which  cause  difficulty  to  the  gram- 
marians. 


118  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Lofty  designs  must  close  in  like  effects: 

Loftily  lying, 
Leave  him — still  loftier  than  the  world  suspects, 

Living  and  dying. 

(1855.) 


THE  HERETIC'S  TRAGEDY 

A    MIDDLE-AGE    INTERLUDE 

ROSA  MUNDI;  SEU,  FULCITEME  FLORIBUS.  A  CONCEIT  OF 
MASTER  GYSBRECHT,  CANON-REGULAR  OF  SAINT  JODOCUS-BY- 
THE-BAR,  YPRES  CITY.  CANTUQUE,  Virgilius.  AND  HATH 
OFTEN  BEEN  SUNG  AT  HOCK-TIDE  AND  FESTIVALS.  GAVISUS 
ERAM,  Jessides.1 

(It  would  seem  to  be  a  glimpse  from  the  burning  of  Jacques 
du  Bourg-Molay,  at  Paris,  A.D.  1314;  as  distorted  by  the 
refraction  from  Flemish  brain  to  brain,  during  the  course 
of  a  couple  of  centuries.  R.B.) 

[Molay  was  Grand  Master  of  the  Templars  when  that 
order  was  suppressed  in  1312.] 


FRED  MONISHETH  THE  ABBOT  DEODAET. 

The  Lord,  we  look  to  once  for  all, 

Is  the  Lord  we  should  look  at,  all  at  once: 
He  knows  not  to  vary,  saith  St.  Paul, 

Nor  the  shadow  of  turning,  for  the  nonce. 
See  him  no  other  than  as  he  is! 

Give  both  the  infinitudes  their  due — 
Infinite  mercy,  but,  I  wis, 

As  infinite  a  justice  too. 
As  infinite  a  justice  too.     [Organ:  plagal-cadence. 

1  Rose    of    the    world;  or,    stay    me    with    flowers    .    .    .    To  the 
tune  virgilius.    ...    I   had  rejoiced,   O  son  of  Jesse. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  119 


ONE    SINGETH. 

John,  Master  of  the  Temple  of  God, 

Falling  to  sin  the  Unknown  Sin, 
What  he  bought  of  Emperor  Aldabrod, 

He  sold  it  to  Sultan  Saladin: 
Till,  caught  by  Pope  Clement,  a-buzzing  there, 

Hornet-prince  of  the  mad  wasps'  hive, 
And  dipt  of  his  wings  in  Paris  square, 

They  bring  him  now  to   be  burned  alive. 

[And  wanteth  there  grace  of  lute  or  clavicithern,  ye  shall  say 
to  confirm  him  who  singeth — 

We  bring  John  now  to  be  burned  alive, 
in 

In  the  midst  is  a  goodly  gallows  built; 

'Twixt  fork  and  fork,  a  stake  is  stuck; 
But  first  they  set  divers  tumbrils  a-tilt, 

Make  a  trench  all  round  with  the  city  muck; 
Inside  they  pile  log  upon  log,  good  store; 

Faggots  no  few,  'blocks  great  and  small, 
Reach  a  man's  mid-thigh,  no  less,  no  more, — 

For  they  mean  he  should  roast  in  the  sight  of  all. 

CHORUS 
We  mean  he  should  roast  in  the  sight  of  all. 

IV 

Good  sappy  bavins  that  kindle  forthwith; 

Billets  that  blaze  substantial  and  slow; 
Pine-stump  split  deftly,  dry  as  pith; 

Larch-heart  that  chars  to  a  chalk- white  glow: 
Then  up  they  hoist  me  John  in  a  chafe, 

Sling  him  fast  like  a  hog  to  scorch, 
Spit  in  his  face,  then  leap  back  safe, 

Sing  "Laudes"1  and  bid  clap-to  the  torch. 

1  The  seven  Psalms  of  praise. 


120  ROBERT  BROWNING 

CHORUS 

Laus  Deo — who  bids  clap-to  the  torch. 


John  of  the  Temple,  whose  fame  so  bragged, 

Is  burning  alive  in  Paris  square! 
How  can  he  curse,  if  his  mouth  is  gagged? 

Or  wriggle  his  neck,  with  a  collar  there? 
Or  heave  his  chest,  which  a  band  goes  round? 

Or  threat  with  his  fist,  since  his  arms  are  spliced? 
Or  kick  with  his  feet,  now  his  legs  are  bound? 

—Thinks  John,  I  will  call  upon  Jesus  Christ. 

[Here  one  crosseth  himself. 


Jesus  Christ — John  had  bought  and  sold, 

Jesus  Christ — John  had  eaten  and  drunk; 
To  him,  the  Flesh  meant  silver  and  gold. 

(Salvd  reverentid.1) 
Jfowit  was,  "Saviour,  bountiful  lamb, 

I  have  roasted  thee  Turks,  though  men  roast  me! 
See  they  servant,  the  plight  wherein  I  am! 

Art  thou  a  saviour?     Save  thou  me!" 

CHORUS 
'Tis  John  the  mocker  cries,  "Save  thou  me!" 

VII 

Who  maketh  God's  menace  an  idle  word? 

— Saith,  it  no  more  means  what  it  proclaims, 
Than  a  damsel's  threat  to  her  wanton  bird? — 

For  she  too  prattles  of  ugly  names. 
— Saith,  he  knoweth  but  one  thing, — what  he  knows? 

That  God  is  good  and  the  rest  is  breath; 
Why  else  is  the  same  styled  Sharon's  rose?2 

Once  a  rose,  ever  a  rose,  he  saith. 

"Saving  your  reverence  [at  the  blasphemy  suggested  in  the  pre- 
ceding linel. 

oj  Solomon,  2:1. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  121 

CHORUS 

0,  John  shall  yet  find  a  rose,  he  saithl 

VIII 

Alack,  there  be  roses  and  roses,  John! 

Some,  honied  of  taste  like  your  leman's  tongue: 
Some,  bitter;  for  why?  (roast  gaily  on!) 

Their  tree  struck  root  in  devil's-dung. 
When  Paul  once  reasoned  of  righteousness 

And  of  temperance  and  of  judgment  to  come, 
Good  Felix  trembled,  he  could  no  less: 

John,  snickering,  crook'd  his  wicked  thumb. 

CHORUS 
What  cometh  to  John  of  the  wicked  thumb? 

IX 

Ha  ha,  John  plucketh  now  at  his  rose 

To  rid  himself  of  a  sorrow  at  heart! 
Lo, — petal  on  petal,  fierce  rays  unclose; 

Anther  on  anther,  sharp  spikes  outstart; 
And  with  blood  for  dew,  the  bosom  boils; 

And  a  gust  of  sulphur  is  all  its  smell; 
And  lo,  he  is  horribly  in  the  toils 

Of  a  coal-black  giant  flower  of  hell! 

CHORUS 
What  maketh  heaven,  That  maketh  hell. 


So,  as  John  called  now,  through  the  fire  amain, 

On  the  Name,  he  had  cursed  with,  all  his  life — 
To  the  Person,  he  bought  and  sold  again — 

For  the  Face,  with  his  daily  buffets  rife — 
Feature  by  feature  It  took  its  place: 

And  his  voice,  like  a  mad  dog's  choking  bark, 
At  the  steady  whole  of  the  Judge's  face — 

Died.     Forth  John's  soul  flared  into  the  dark. 


122  ROBERT  BROWNING 

SUBJOINETH   THE   ABBOT   DEODAET. 

God  help  all  poor  souls  lost  in  the  dark! 

(1855.) 

THE  STATUE  AND  THE  BUST 

There's  a  palace  in  Florence,  the  world  knows  well, 
And  a  statue  watches  it  from  the  square, 
And  this  story  of  both  do  our  townsmen  tell. 

Ages  ago,  a  lady  there, 

At  the  farthest  window  facing  the  East 

Asked,  "Who  rides  by  with  the  royal  air?" 

The  bridesmaids'  prattle  around  her  ceased; 

She  leaned  forth,  one  on  cither  hand; 

They  saw  how  the  blush  of  the  bride  increased — 

They  felt  by  its  beats  her  heart  expand — 
As  one  at  each  ear  and  both  in  a  breath 
Whispered,  "The  Great-Duke  Ferdinand." 

That  selfsame  instant,  underneath, 
The  Duke  rode  past  in  his  idle  way, 
Empty  and  fine  like  a  s wordless  sheath. 

Gay  he  rode,  with  a  friend  as  gay, 

Till  he  threw  his  head  back — "Who  is  she?" 

— "A  bride  the  Riccardi  brings  home  to-day." 

Hair  in  heaps  lay  heavily 

Over  a  pale  brow  spirit-pure — 

Carved  like  the  heart  of  the  coal-black  tree, 

Crisped  like  a  war-steed's  encolure — 
And  vainly  sought  to  dissemble  her  eyes 
Of  the  blackest  black  our  eyes  endure, 

And  lo,  a  blade  for  a  knight's  emprise 
Filled  the  fine  empty  sheath  of  a  man, — 
The  Duke  grew  straightway  brave  and  wise. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  123 

He  looked  at  her,  as  a  lover  can; 

She  looked  at  him,  as  one  who  awakes: 

The  past  was  a  sleep,  and  her  life  began. 

Now,  love  so  ordered  for  both  their  sakes, 

A  feast  was  held  that  selfsame  night 

In  the  pile  which  the  mighty  shadow  makes. 

(For  Via  Larga  is  three-parts  light, 

But  the  palace  overshadows  one, 

Because  of  a  crime,  which  may  God  requite! 

To  Florence  and  God  the  wrong  was  done, 
Through  the  first  republic's  murder  there 
By  Cosimo  and  his  cursed  son.) 

The  Duke  (with  the  statue's  face  in  the  square) 
Turned  in  the  midst  of  his  multitude 
At  the  bright  approach  of  the  bridal  pair. 

Face  to  face  the  lovers  stood 

A  single  minute  and  no  more, 

While  the  bridegroom  bent  as  a  man  subdued — 

Bowed  till  his  bonnet  brushed  the  floor — 
For  the  Duke  on  the  lady  a  kiss  conferred, 
As  the  courtly  custom  was  of  yore. 

In  a  minute  can  lovers  exchange  a  word? 
If  a  word  did  pass,  which  I  do  not  think, 
Only  one  out  of  a  thousand  heard. 

That  was  the  bridegroom.     At  day's  brink 
He  and  his  bride  were  alone  at  last 
In  a  bed  chamber  by  a  taper's  blink. 

Calmly  he  said  that  her  lot  was  cast, 

That  the  door  she  had  passed  was  shut  on  her 

Till  the  final  catafalk  repassed. 

The  world  meanwhile,  its  noise  and  stir, 


124  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Through  a  certain  window  facing  the  East 
She  could  watch  like  a  convent's  chronicler. 

Since  passing  the  door  might  lead  to  a  feast, 
And  a  feast  might  lead  to  so  much  beside, 
He,  of  many  evils,  chose  the  least. 

"Freely  I  choose  too,"  said  the  bride — 
"Your  window  and  its  world  suffice," 
Replied  the  tongue,  while  the  heart  replied — 

"If  I  spend  the  night  with  that  devil  twice, 
May  his  window  serve  as  my  loop  of  hell 
Whence  a  damned  soul  looks  on  paradise! 

"I  fly  to  the  Duke  who  loves  me  well, 
Sit  by  his  side  and  laugh  at  sorrow 
Ere  I  count  another  ave-bell. 

!"Tis  only  the  coat  of  a  page  to  borrow, 
And  tie  my  hair  in  a  horse-boy's  trim. 
And  I  save  my  soul — but  not  to-morrow  "- 

(She  checked  herself  and  her  eye  grew  dim) 
"My  father  tarries* to  bless  my  state: 
I  must  keep  it  one  day  more  for  him. 

"Is  one  day  more  so  long  to  wait? 
Moreover  the  Duke  rides  past,  I  know; 
We  shall  see  each  other,  sure  as  fate." 

She  turned  on  her  side  and  slept.     Just  so! 
So  we  resolve  on  a  thing  and  sleep: 
So  did  the  lady,  ages  ago. 

That  night  the  Duke  said,  "Dear  or  cheap 
As  the  cost  of  this  cup  of  bliss  may  prove 
To  body  or  soul,  I  will  drain  it  deep." 

And  on  the  morrow,  bold  with  love, 

He  beckoned  the  bridegroom  (close  on  call, 

As  his  duty  bade,  by  the  Duke's  alcove) 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  125 

Ana  smiled  "'Twas  a  very  funeral, 
Your  lady  will  think,  this  feast  of  ours, — 
A  shame  to  efface,  whate'er  befall! 

"What  if  we  break  from  the  Arno  bowers, 

And  try  if  Petraja,  cool  and  green, 

Cure  last  night's  fault  with  this  morning's  flowers?" 

The  bridegroom,  not  a  thought  to  be  seen 
On  his  steady  brow  and  quiet  mouth, 
Said,  "Too  much  favor  for  me  so  mean! 

"But,  alas!  my  lady  leaves  the  South; 
Each  wind  that  comes  from  the  Apennine 
Is  a  menace  to  her  tender  youth: 

"Nor  a  way  exists,  the  wise  opine, 
If  she  quits  her  palace  twice  this  year, 
To  avert  the  flower  of  life's  decline." 

Quoth  the  Duke,  "A  sage  and  a  kindly  fear. 
Moreover  Petraja  is  cold  this  spring: 
Be  our  feast  to-night  as  usual  here!" 

And  then  to  himself — "Which  night  shall  bring 
Thy  bride  to  her  lover's  embraces,  fool — 
Or  I  am  the  fool,  and  thou  art  the  king! 

"Yet  my  passion  must  wait  a  night,  nor  cool — 
For  to-night  the  Envoy  arrives  from  France 
Whose  heart  I  unlock  with  thyself,  my  tool. 

"I  need  thee  still  and  might  miss  perchance. 

To-day  is  not  wholly  lost,  beside, 

With  its  hope  of  my  lady's  countenance: 

"For  I  ride — what  should  I  do  but  ride? 

And  passing  her  palace,  if  I  list, 

May  glance  at  its  window — well  betide!" 

So  said,  so  done:  nor  the  lady  missed 


126  ROBERT  BROWNING 

One  ray  that  broke  from  the  ardent  brow, 
Nor  a  curl  of  the  lips  where  the  spirit  kissed. 

Be  sure  that  each  renewed  the  vow, 
No  morrow's  sun  should  arise  and  set 
And  leave  them  then  as  it  left  them  now. 

But  next  day  passed,  and  next  day  yet, 
With  still  fresh  cause  to  wait  one  day  more 
Ere  each  leaped  over  the  parapet. 

And  still,  as  love's  brief  morning  wore, 
With  a  gentle  start,  half  smile,  half  sigh, 
They  found  love  not  as  it  seemed  before. 

They  thought  it  would  work  infallibly, 

But  not  in  despite  of  heaven  and  earth: 

The  rose  would  blow  when  the  storm  passed  by. 

Meantime  they  could  profit  in  winter's  dearth 
By  store  of  fruits  that  supplant  the  rose: 
The  world  and  its  ways  have  a  certain  worth: 

And  to  press  a  point  while  these  oppose 

Were  simple  policy;  better  wait: 

We  lose  no  friends  and  we  gain  no  foes. 

Meantime,  worse  fates  than  a  lover's  fate, 
Who  daily  may  ride  and  pass  and  look 
Where  his  lady  watches  behind  the  grate! 

And  she — she  watched  the  square  like  a  book 
Holding  one  picture  and  only  one, 
Which  daily  to  find  she  undertook: 

When  the  picture  was  reached  the  book  was  done, 
And  she  turned  from  the  picture  at  night  to 

scheme 
Of  tearing  it  out  for  herself  next  sun. 

So  weeks  grew  months,  years;  gleam  by  gleam 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  127 

The  glory  dropped  from  their  youth  and  love, 
And  both  perceived  they  had  dreamed  a  dream; 

Which  hovered  as  dreams  do,  still  above: 
But  who  can  take  a  dream  for  a  truth? 
Oh,  hide  our  eyes  from  the  next  remove! 

One  day  as  the  lady  saw  her  youth 
Depart,  and  the  silver  thread  that  streaked 
Her  hair,  and,  worn  by  the  serpent's  tooth, 

The  brow  so  puckered,  the  chin  so  peaked, — 
And  wondered  who  the  woman  was, 
Hollow-eyed  and  haggard-cheeked, 

Fronting  her  silent  in  the  glass — 
"Summon  here,"  she  suddenly  said, 
"Before  the  rest  of  my  old  self  pass, 

"Him,  the  Carver,  a  hand  to  aid, 

Who  fashions  the  clay  no  love  will  change, 

And  fixes  a  beauty  never  to  fade. 

"Let  Robbia's  craft  so  apt  and  strange 
Arrest  the  remains  of  young  and  fair, 
And  rivet  them  while  the  seasons  range. 

"Make  me  a  face  on  the  window  there, 
Waiting  as  ever,  mute  the  while, 
My  love  to  pass  below  in  the  square ! 

"And  let  me  think  that  it  may  beguile 
Dreary  days  which  the  dead  must  spend 
Down  in  their  darkness  under  the  aisle, 

"To  say,  'What  matters  it  at  the  end? 
I  did  no  more  while  my  heart  was  warm 
Than  does  that  image,  my  pale-faced  friend.' 

"Where  is  the  use  of  the  lip's  red  charm, 
The  heaven  of  hair,  the  pride  of  the  brow, 
And  the  blood  that  blues  the  inside  arm — 


128  ROBERT  BROWNING 

"Unless  we  turn,  as  the  soul  knows  how, 
The  earthly  gift  to  an  end  divine? 
A  lady  of  clay  is  as  good,  I  trow." 

But  long  ere  Robbia's  cornice,  fine, 

With  flowers  and  fruits  which  leaves  enlace, 

Was  set  where  now  is  the  empty  shrine — 

(And,  leaning  out  of  a  bright  blue  space, 
As  a  ghost  might  lean  from  a  chink  of  sky, 
The  passionate  pale  lady's  face — 

Eying  ever,  with  earnest  eye 

And  quick-turned  neck  at  its  breathless  stretch, 

Some  one  who  ever  is  passing  by — ) 

The  Duke  had  sighed  like  the  simplest  wretch 

In  Florence,  "Youth — my  dream  escapes! 

Will  its  record  stay?"     And  he  bade  them  fetch 

Some  subtle  moulder  of  brazen  shapes — 
"Can  the  soul,  the  will,  die  out  of  a  man 
Ere  his  body  find  the  grave  that  gapes? 

"John  of  Douay  shall  effect  my  plan, 
Set  me  on  horseback  here  aloft, 
Alive,  as  the  crafty  sculptor  can, 

"In  the  very  square  I  have  crossed  so  oft: 
That  men  may  admire,  when  future  sun 
Shall  touch  the  eyes  to  a  purpose  soft, 

"While  the  mouth  and  the  brow  stay  brave  in 

bronze — 

Admire  and  say,  'When  he  was  alive 
How  he  would  take  his  pleasure  once!' 

"And  it  shall  go  hard  but  I  contrive 

To  listen  the  while,  and  laugh  in  my  tomb 

At  idleness  which  aspires  to  strive." 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  129 

So!  While  these  wait  the  trump  of  doom, 
How  do  their  spirits  pass,  I  wonder, 
Nights  and  days  in  the  narrow  room? 

Still,  I  suppose,  they  sit  and  ponder 
What  a  gift  life  was,  ages  ago, 
Six  steps  out  of  the  chapel  yonder. 

Only  they  see  not  God,  I  know, 

Nor  all  that  chivalry  of  his, 

The  soldier-saints  who,  row  on  row, 

Burn  upward  each  to  his  point  of  bliss — 

Since,  the  end  of  life  being  manifest, 

He  had  burned  his  way  through  the  world  to  this. 

I  hear  you  reproach,  "But  delay  was  best, 
For  their  end  was  a  crime." — Oh,  a  crime  will  do 
As  well,  I  reply,  to  serve  for  a  test, 

As  a  virtue  golden  through  and  through, 

Sufficient  to  vindicate  itself 

And  prove  its  worth  at  a  moment's  view! 

Must  a  game  be  played  for  the  sake  of  pelf? 
Where  a  button  goes,  't  were  an  epigram 
To  offer  the  stamp  of  the  very  Guelph. 

The  true  has  no  value  beyond  the  sham: 

As  well  the  counter  as  coin,  I  submit, 

When  your  table's  a  hat,  and  your  prize,  a  dram. 

Stake  your  counter  as  boldly  every  whit, 

Venture  as  warily,  use  the  same  skill, 

Do  your  best,  whether  winning  or  losing  it, 

If  you  choose  to  play! — is  my  principle. 
Let  a  man  contend  to  the  uttermost 
For  his  life's  set  prize,  be  it  what  it  will! 

The  counter  our  lovers  staked  was  lost 


130  ROBERT  BROWNING 

As  surely  as  if  it  were  lawful  coin: 

And  the  sin  I  impute  to  each  frustrate  ghost 

Is — the  unlit  lamp  and  the  ungirt  loin, 
Though  the  end  in  sight  was  a  vice,  I  say. 
You  of  the  virtue  (we  issue  join) 
How  strive  you?     De  te,  fabula!  x 

(1855.) 


PORPHYRIA'S   LOVER 

The  rain  set  early  in  to-night, 

The  sullen  wind  was  soon  awake, 
It  tore  the  elm-tops  down  for  spite, 

And  did  its  worst  to  vex  the  lake: 
I  listened  with  heart  fit  to  break. 
When  glided  in  Porphyria;  straight 

She  shut  the  cold  out  and  the  storm, 
And  kneeled  and  made  the  cheerless  grate 

Blaze  up,  and  all  the  cottage  warm; 
Which  done,  she  rose,  and  from  her  form 
Withdrew  the  dripping  cloak  and  shawl, 

And  laid  her  soiled  gloves  by,  untied 
Her  hat  and  let  the  damp  hair  fall, 

And,  last,  she  sat  down  by  my  side 
And  called  me.     When  no  voice  replied, 
She  put  my  arm  about  her  waist, 

And  made  her  smooth  white  shoulder  bare, 
And  all  her  yellow  hair  displaced, 

And,  stooping,  made  my  cheek  lie  there, 
And  spread,  o'er  all,  her  yellow  hair, 
Murmuring  how  she  loved  me — she 

Too  weak,  for  all  her  heart's  endeavor, 
To  set  its  struggling  passion  free 

From  pride,  and  vainer  ties  dissever, 
And  give  herself  to  me  forever. 
But  passion  sometimes  would  prevail, 

Nor  could  to-night's  gay  feast  restrain 
A  sudden  thought  of  one  so  pale 

1  Concerning  you,  this  story. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  131 

For  love  of  her,  and  all  in  vain: 
So,  she  was  come  through  wind  and  rain. 
Be  sure  I  looked  up  at  her  eyes 

Happy  and  proud;  at  last  I  knew 
Porphyria  worshipped  me;  surprise 

Made  my  heart  swell,  and  still  it  grew 
While  I  debated  what  to  do. 
That  moment  she  was  mine,  mine,  fair, 

Perfectly  pure  and  good:  I  found 
A  thing  to  do,  and  all  her  hair 

In  one  long  yellow  string  I  wound 
Three  times  her  little  throat  around, 
And  strangled  her.  No  pain  felt  she; 

I  am  quite  sure  she  felt  no  pain. 
As  a  shut  bud  that  holds  a  bee, 

I  warily  oped  her  lids:  again 
Laughed  the  blue  eyes  without  a  stain. 
And  I  untightened  next  the  tress 

About  her  neck;  her  cheek  once  more 
Blushed  bright  beneath  my  burning  kiss: 

I  propped  her  head  up  as  before, 
Only,  this  time  my  shoulder  bore 
Her  head,  which  droops  upon  it  still: 

The  smiling  rosy  little  head, 
So  glad  it  has  its  utmost  will, 

That  all  it  scorned  at  once  is  fled, 
And  I,  its  love,  am  gained  instead! 
Porphyria's  love:  she  guessed  not  how 

Her  darling  one  wish  would  be  heard. 
And  thus  we  sit  together  now, 

And  all  night  long  we  have  not  stirred, 
And  yet  God  has  not  said  a  word! 

(1842.) 


"CHILDE  ROLAND  TO  THE  DARK 
TOWER  CAME" 

(See  Edgar's  song  in  Lear) 

MY  first  thought  was,  he  lied  in  every  word, 
That  hoary  cripple,  with  malicious  eye 


132  ROBERT  BROWNING 

^ 

Askance  to  watch  the  working  of  his  lie 
On  mine,  and  mouth  scarce  able  to  afford 
Suppression  of  the  glee,  that  pursed  and  scored 

Its  edge,  at  one  more  victim  gained  thereby. 

What  else  should  he  be  set  for,  with  his  staff? 
What,  save  to  waylay  with  his  lies,  ensnare 
All  travellers  who  might  find  him  posted  there, 
And  ask  the  road?     I  guessed  what  skull-like  laugh 
Would  break,  what  crutch  'gin  write  my  epitaph 
For  pastime  in  the  dusty  thoroughfare, 

If  at  his  counsel  I  should  turn  aside 

Into  that  ominous  tract  which,  all  agree, 
Hides  the  Dark  Tower.     Yet  acquiescingly 

I  did  turn  as  he  pointed:  neither  pride 

Nor  hope  rekindling  at  the  end  descried, 

So  much  as  gladness  that  some  end  might  be. 

For,  what  with  my  whole  world-wide  wandering, 

What  with  my  search  drawn  out  through  years,  my  hope 
Dwindled  into  a  ghost  not  fit  to  cope 

With  that  obstreperous  joy  success  would  bring, — 

I  hardly  tried  now  to  rebuke  the  spring 
My  heart  made,  finding  failure  in  its  scope. 

As  when  a  sick  man  very  near  to  death 

Seems  dead  indeed,  and  feels  begin  and  end 
The  tears,  and  takes  the  farewell  of  each  friend, 
And  hears  one  bid  the  other  go,  draw  breath 
Freelier  outside,  ("since  all  is  o'er,"  he  saith, 
"And  the  blow  fallen  no  grieving  can  amend;") 

While  some  discuss  if  near  the  other  graves  / 

Be  room  enough  for  this,  and  when  a  day 

Suits  best  for  carrying  the  corpse  away, 
With  care  about  the  banners,  scarves  and  staves: 
And  still  the  man  hears  all,  and  only  craves 

He  may  not  shame  such  tender  love  and  stay. 

Thus,  I  had  so  long  suffered  in  this  quest, 
Heard  failure  prophesied  so  oft,  been  writ 
So  many  times  among  "The  Band" — to  wit, 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  133 

The  knights  who  to  the  Dark  Tower's  search  addressed 
Their  steps — that  just  to  fail  as  they,  seemed  best, 
And  all  the  doubt  was  now — should  I  be  fit? 

So,  quiet  as  despair,  I  turned  from  him, 

That  hateful  cripple,  out  of  his  highway 

Into  the  path  he  pointed.     All  the  day 
Had  been  a  dreary  one  at  best,  and  dim 
Was  settling  to  its  close,  yet  shot  one  grim 

Red  leer  to  see  the  plain  catch  its  estray. 

For  mark!  no  sooner  was  I  fairly  found 
Pledged  to  the  plain,  after  a  pace  or  two, 
Than,  pausing  to  throw  backward  a  last  view  ' 

O'er  the  safe  road,  't  was  gone;  gray  plain  all  round:  • 

Nothing  but  plain  to  the  horizon's  bound.    '•• 
I  might  go  on;  naught  else  remained  to  do.  t 

So,  on  I  went.     I  think  I  never  saw 

Such  starved  ignoble  nature;  nothing  throve: 
For  flowers — as  well  expect  a  cedar  grove! 
But  cockle,  spurge,  according  to  their  law 
Might  propagate  their  kind,  with  none  to  awe, 
You'd  think;  a  burr  had  been  a  treasure-trove. 

No!  penury,  inertness  and  grimace, 

In  some  strange  sort,  were  the  land's  portion.     "See 

Or  shut  your  eyes,"  said  Nature  peevishly, 
"It  nothing  skills:  I  cannot  help  my  case: 
'T  is  the  Last  Judgment's  fire  must  cure  this  place, 

Calcine  its  clods  and  set  my  prisoners  free." 

If  there  pushed  any  ragged  thistle-stalk 
Above  its  mates,  the  head  was  chopped;  the  bents 
Were  jealous  else.     What  made  those  holes  and  rents 
In  the  dock's  harsh  swarth  leaves,  bruised  as  to  balk 
All  hope  of  greenness?     't  is  a  brute  must  walk 
P_ashing  their  life  out,  with  a  brute's  intents. 

As  for  the  grass,  it  grew  as  scant  as  hair 
In  leprosy;  thin  dry  blades  pricked  the  mud 
Which  underneath  looked  kneaded  up  with  blood. 


134  ROBERT  BROWNING 

One  stiff  blind  horse,  his  every  bone  a-stare, 
Stood  stupefied,  however  he  came  there: 

Thrust  out  past  service  from  the  devil's  stud! 

Alive?  he  might  be  dead  for  aught  I  know, 

With  that  red  gaunt  and  colioped  neck  a-strain, 
And  shut  eyes  underneath  the  rusty  mane; 

Seldom  went  such  grotesqueness  with  such  woe; 

I  never  saw  a  brute  I  hated  so; 

He  must  be  wicked  to  deserve  such  pain. 

I  shut  my  eyes  and  turned  them  on  my  heart. 
As  a  man  calls  for  wine  before  he  fights, 
I  asked  one  draught  of  earlier,  happier  sights, 

Ere  fitly  I  could  hope  to  play  my  part. 

Think  first,  fight  afterwards — the  soldier's  art: 
One  taste  of  the  old  time  sets  all  to  rights. 

Not  it!     I  fancied  Cuthbert's  reddening  face 

Beneath  its  garniture  of  curly  gold, 

Dear  fellow,  till  I  almost  felt  him  fold 
An  arm  in  mine  to  fix  me  to  the  place, 
That  way  he  used.     Alas,  one  night's  disgrace! 

Out  went  my  heart's  new  fire  and  left  it  cold. 

Giles  then,  the  soul  of  honor — there  he  stands 
Frank  as  ten  years  ago  when  knighted  first. 
What  honest  man  should  dare  (he  said)  he  durst. 
Good — but  the  scene  shifts — faugh!  what  hangman  hands 
Pin  to  his  breast  a  parchment?     His  own  bands 
Read  it.     Poor  traitor,  spit  upon  and  curst! 

Better  this  present  than  a  past  like  that; 

Back  therefore  to  my  darkening  path  again! 

No  sound,  no  sight  as  far  as  eye  could  strain. 
Will  the  night  send  a  howlet  or  a  bat? 
I  asked:  when  something  on  the  dismal  flat 

Came  to  arrest  my  thoughts  and  change  their  train. 

A  sudden  little  river  crossed  my  path 
As  unexpected  as  a  serpent  comes. 
No  sluggish  tide  congenial  to  the  glooms; 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  135 

This,  as  it  frothed  by,  might  have  been  a  bath 
For  the  fiend's  glowing  hoof — to  see  the  wrath 
Of  its  black  eddy  bespate  with  flakes  and  spumes. 

So  petty  yet  so  spiteful!    All  along, 

Low  scrubby  alders  kneeled  down  over  it; 

Drenched  willows  flung  them  headlong  in  a  fit 
Of  mute  despair,  a  suicidal  throng: 
The  river  which  had  done  them  all  the  wrong, 

Whate'er  that  was,  rolled  by,  deterred  no  whit. 

Which,  while  I  forded, — good  saints,  how  I  feared 
To  set  my  foot  upon  a  dead  man's  cheek, 
Each  step,  or  feel  the  spear  I  thrust  to  seek 

For  hollows,  tangled  in  his  hair  or  beard! 

— It  may  have  been  a  water-rat  I  speared, 
But,  ugh!  it  sounded  like  a  baby's  shriek. 

Glad  was  I  when  I  reached  the  other  bank. 

Now  for  a  better  country.     Vain  presage! 

Who  were  the  strugglers,  what  war  did  they  wage, 
Whose  savage  trample  thus  could  pad  the  dank 
Soil  to  a  plash?     Toads  in  a  poisoned  tank, 

Or  wild  cats  in  a  red-hot  iron  cage — 

The  fight  must  so  have  seemed  in  that  fell  cirque. 

What  penned  them  there,  with  all  the  plain  to  choose? 

No  footprint  leading  to  that  horrid  mews, 
None  out  of  it.     Mad  brewage  set  to  work 
Their  brains,  no  doubt,  like  galley-slaves  the  Turk 

Pits  for  his  pastime,  Christians  against  Jews. 

And  more  than  that — a  furlong  on — why,  there! 
What  bad  use  was  that  engine  for,  that  wheel, 
Or  brake,  not  wheel — that  harrow  fit  to  reel 

Men's  bodies  out  like  silk?  with  all  the  air 

Of  Tophet's  tool,  on  earth  left  unaware, 

Or  brought  to  sharpen  its  rusty  teeth  of  steel. 

Then  came  a  bit  of  stubbed  ground,  once  a  wood, 
Next  a  marsh,  it  would  seem,  and  now  mere  earth 
Desperate  and  done  with:  (so  a  fool  finds  mirth, 


136  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Makes  a  thing  and  then  mars  it,  till  his  mood 
Changes  and  off  he  goes!)  within  a  rood — 

Bog,  clay  and  rubble,  sand  and  stark  black  dearth. 

Now  blotches  rankling,  colored  gay  and  grim, 
Now  patches  where  some  leanness  of  the  soil's 
Broke  into  moss  or  substances  like  boils; 

Then  came  some  palsied  oak,  a  cleft  in  him 

Like  a  distorted  mouth  that  splits  its  rim 
Gaping  at  death,  and  dies  while  it  recoils. 

And  just  as  far  as  ever  from  the  end! 

Naught  in  the  distance  but  the  evening,  naught 
To  point  my  footstep  further!     At  the  thought, 
A  great  black  bird,  Apollyon's  bosom-friend, 
Sailed  past,  nor  beat  his  wide  wing  dragon-penned 
That  brushed  my  cap — perchance  the  guide  I  sought. 

For,  looking  up,  aware  I  somehow  grew, 
'Spite  of  the  dusk,  the  plain  had  given  place 
All  round  to  mountains — with  such  name  to  grace 

Mere  ugly  heights  and  heaps  now  stolen  in  view. 

How  thus  they  had  surprised  me, — solve  it,  you! 
How  to  get  from  them  was  no  clearer  case. 

Yet  half  I  seemed  to  recognize  some  trick 

Of  mischief  happened  to  me,  God  knows  when — 
In  a  bad  dream  perhaps.     Here  ended,  then, 

Progress  this  way.     When,  in  the  very  nick 

Of  giving  up,  one  time  more,  came  a  click 
As  when  a  trap  shuts — you're  inside  the  den! 

Burningly  it  came  on  me  all  at  once, 

This  was  the  place!  those  two  hills  on  the  right, 
Crouched  like  two  bulls  locked  horn  in  horn  in  fight; 

While  to  the  left,  a  tall  scalped  mountain  .  .  .  Dunce, 

Dotard,  a-dozing  at  the  very  nonce, 
After  a  life  spent  training  for  the  sight ! 

What  in  the  midst  lay  but  the  Tower  itself? 

The  round  squat  turret,  blind  as  the  fool's  heart, 
Built  of  brown  stone,  without  a  counterpart 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  137 

In  the  whole  world.    The  tempest's  mocking  elf 
Points  to  the  shipman  thus  the  unseen  shelf 
He  strikes  on,  only  when  the  timbers  start. 

Not  see?  because  of  night  perhaps? — why,  day 

Came  back  again  for  that!  before  it  left, 

The  dying  sunset  kindled  through  a  cleft: 
The  hills,  like  giants  at  a  hunting,  lay, 
Chin  upon  hand,  to  see  the  game  at  bay, — 

"Now  stab  and  end  the  creature — to  the  heft!" 

Not  hear?  when  noise  was  everywhere!  it  tolled 

Increasing  like  a  bell.     Names  in  my  ears 

Of  all  the  lost  adventurers  my  peers, — 
How  such  a  one  was  strong,  and  such  was  bold, 
And  such  was  fortunate,  yet  each  of  old 

Lost,  lost!  one  moment  knelled  the  woe  of  years. 

There  they  stood,  ranged  along  the  hillsides,  met 

To  view  the  last  of  me,  a  living  frame 

For  one  more  picture!  in  a  sheet  of  flame 
I  saw  them  and  I  knew  them  all.  And  yet 
Dauntless  the  slug-horn  to  my  lips  I  set, 

And  blew.  "Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark  Tower  came." 

(1855.) 

AN  EPISTLE 

CONTAINING  THE  STRANGE  MEDICAL  EXPERIENCE 
OF  KARSHISH,  THE   ARAB    PHYSICIAN 

Karshish,  the  picker-up  of  learning's  crumbs, 

The  not-incurious  in  God's  handiwork 

(This  man's-flesh  he  hath  admirably  made, 

Blown  like  a  bubble,  kneaded  like  a  paste, 

To  coop  up  and  keep  down  on  earth  a  space 

That  puff  of  vapour  from  his  mouth,  man's  soul) 

— To  Abib,  all-sagacious  in  our  art, 

Breeder  in  me  of  what  poor  skill  I  boast, 

Like  me  inquisitive  how  pricks  and  cracks 

Befall  the  flesh  through  too  much  stress  and  strain, 

Whereby  the  wily  vapour  fain  would  slip 


138  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Back  and  rejoin  its  source  before  the  term, — 

And  aptest  in  contrivance  (under  God) 

To  baffle  it  by  deftly  stopping  such: — 

The  vagrant  Scholar  to  his  Sage  at  home 

Sends  greeting  (health  and  knowledge,  fame  with  peace) 

Three  samples  of  true  snake-stone — rarer  still, 

One  of  the  other  sort,  the  melon-shaped, 

(But  fitter,  pounded  fine,  for  charms  than  drugs) 

And  writeth  now  the  twenty-second  time. 

My  journeyings  were  brought  to  Jericho: 
Thus  I  resume.     Who  studious  in  our  art 
Shall  count  a  little  labour  unrepaicl? 
I  have  shed  sweat  enough,  left  flesh  and  bone 
On  many  a  flinty  furlong  of  this  land. 
Also,  the  country-side  is  all  on  fire 
With  rumours  of  a  marching  hitherward: 
Some  say  Vespasian1  cometh,  some,  his  son. 
A  black  lynx  snarled  and  pricked  a  tufted  ear; 
Lust  of  my  blood  inflamed  his  yellow  balls : 
I  cried  and  threw  my  staff  and  he  was  gone, 
Twice  have  the  robbers  stripped  and  beaten  me, 
And  once  a  town  declared  me  for  a  spy; 
But  at  the  end,  I  reach  Jerusalem, 
Since  this  poor  covert  where  I  pass  the  night, 
This  Bethany,  lies  scarce  the  distance  thence 
A  man  with  plague-sores  at  the  third  degree 
Runs  till  he  drops  down  dead.    Thou  laughest  here! 
'Sooth,  it  elates  me,  thus  reposed  and  safe, 
To  void  the  stuffing  of  my  travel-scrip 
And  share  with  thee  whatever  Jewry  yields. 
A  viscid  choler  is  observable 
In  tertians,  I  was  nearly  bold  to  say; 
And  falling-sickness  hath  a  happier  cure 
Than  our  school  wots  of:  there's  a  spider  here 
Weaves  no  web,  watches  on  the  ledge  of  tombs, 
Sprinkled  with  mottles  on  an  ash-grey  back; 
Take  five  and  drop  them  .  .  .  but  who  knows  his  mind, 
The  Syrian  runagate  I  trust  this  to? 

1  Roman  general  who  led  an  army  against  Palestine  in  66  A.  D. 
His  son  Titus  succeeded  to  his  command. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  139 

His  service  payeth  me  a  sublimate 
Blown  up  his  nose  to  help  the  ailing  eye. 
Best  wait:  I  reach  Jerusalem  at  morn, 
There  set  in  order  my  experiences, 
Gather  what  most  deserves,  and  give  thee  all — 
Or  I  might  add,  Judea's  gum-tragacanth 
Scales  off  in  purer  flakes,  shines  clearer-grained, 
Cracks  'twixt  the  pestle  and  the  porphyry, 
In  fine  exceeds  our  produce.     Scalp-diseaso 
Confounds  me,  crossing  so  with  leprosy — 
Thou  hadst  admired  one  sort  I  gained  at  Zoar — 
But  zeal  outruns  discretion.     Here  I  end. 

Yet  stay:  my  Syrian  blinketh  gratefully, 
Protesteth  his  devotion  is  my  price — 
Suppose  I  write  what  harms  not,  though  he  steal? 
I  half  resolve  to  tell  thee,  yet  I  blush, 
What  set  me  off  a-writing  first  of  all. 
An  itch  I  had,  a  sting  to  write,  a  tang! 
For,  be  it  this  town's  barrenness — or  else 
The  Man  had  something  in  the  look  of  him — 
His  case  has  struck  me  far  more  than  'tis  worth. 
So,  pardon  if— (lest  presently  I  lose 
In  the  great  press  of  novelty  at  hand 
The  care  and  pains  this  somehow  stole  from  me) 
I  bid  thee  take  the  thing  while  fresh  in  mind, 
Almost  in  sight — for,  wilt  thou  have  the  truth? 
The  very  man  is  gone  from  me  but  now, 
Whose  ailment  is  the  subject  of  discourse. 
Thus  then,  and  let  thy  better  wit  help  all! 

'Tis  but  a  case  of  mania — subinduced 
By  epilepsy,  at  the  turning-point 
Of  trance  prolonged  unduly  some  three  days: 
When  by  the  exhibition  of  some  drug 
Or  spell,  exorcisation,  stroke  of  art 
Unknown  to  me  and  which  'twere  well  to  know, 
The  evil  thing  out-breaking  all  at  once 
Left  the  man  whole  and  sound  of  body  indeed, — 
But,  flinging  (so  to  speak)  life's  gates  too  wide, 
Making  a  clear  house  of  it  too  suddenly, 
The  first  conceit  that  entered  might  inscribe 


140  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Whatever  it  was  minded  on  the  wall 

So  plainly  at  that  vantage,  as  it  were, 

(First  come,  first  served)  that  nothing  subsequent 

Attaineth  to  erase  those  fancy-scrawls 

The  just-returned  and  new-established  soul 

Hath  gotten  now  so  thoroughly  by  heart 

That  henceforth  she  will  read  or  these  or  none. 

And  first — the  man's  own  firm  conviction  rests 

That  he  was  dead  (in  fact  they  buried  him) 

— That  he  was  dead  and  then  restored  to  life 

By  a  Nazarene  physician  of  his  tribe: 

— 'Sayeth,  the  same  bade  "Rise,"  and  he  did  rise. 

"Such  cases  are  diurnal,"  thou  wilt  cry. 

Not  so  this  figment! — not,  that  such  a  fume, 

Instead  of  giving  way  to  time  and  health, 

Should  eat  itself  into  the  life  of  life, 

As  saffron  tingeth  flesh,  blood,  bones  and  all! 

For  see,  how  he  takes  up  the  after-life. 

The  man — it  is  one  Lazarus  a  Jew, 

Sanguine,  proportioned,  fifty  years  of  age, 

The  body's  habit  wholly  laudable, 

As  much,  indeed,  beyond  the  common  health 

As  he  were  made  and  put  aside  to  show. 

Think,  could  we  penetrate  by  any  drug 

And  bathe  the  wearied  soul  and  worried  flesh, 

And  bring  it  clear  and  fair,  by  three  days'  sleep! 

Whence  has  the  man  the  balm  that  brightens  all? 

This  grown  man  eyes  the  world  now  like  a  child. 

Some  elders  of  his  tribe,  I  should  premise, 

Led  in  their  friend,  obedient  as  a  sheep, 

To  bear  my  inquisition.     While  they  spoke, 

Now  sharply,  now  with  sorrow,— told  the  case, — 

He  listened  not  except  I  spoke  to  him, 

But  folded  his  two  hands  and  let  them  talk, 

Watching  the  flies  that  buzzed:  and  yet  no  fool. 

And  that's  a  sample  how  his  years  must  go. 

Look,  if  a  beggar,  in  fixed  middle-life, 

Should  find  a  treasure,— can  he  use  the  same 

With  straightened  habits  and  with  tastes  starved  small, 

And  take  at  once  to  his  impoverished  brain 

The  sudden  element  that  changes  things, 

That  sets  the  undreamed-of  rapture  at  his  hand 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  141 

And  puts  the  cheap  old  joy  in  the  scorned  dust? 

Is  he  not  such  an  one  as  moves  to  mirth — 

Warily  parsimonious,  when  no  need, 

Wasteful  as  drunkenness  at  undue  times? 

All  prudent  counsel  as  to  what  befits 

The  golden  mean,  is  lost  on  such  an  one: 

The  man's  fantastic  will  is  the  man's  law. 

So  here — we  call  the  treasure  knowledge,  say, 

Increased  beyond  the  fleshly  faculty — 

Heaven  opened  to  a  soul  while  yet  on  earth, 

Earth  forced  on  a  soul's  use  while  seeing  heaven: 

The  man  is  witless  of  the  size,  the  sum, 

The  value  in  proportion  of  all  things, 

Or  whether  it  be  little  or  be  much. 

Discourse  to  him  of  prodigious  armaments 

Assembled  to  besiege  his  city  now, 

And  of  the  passing  of  a  mule  with  gourds — 

'Tis  one!    Then  take  it  on  the  other  side, 

Speak  of  some  trifling  fact, — he  will  gaze  rapt 

With  stupor  at  its  very  littleness, 

(Far  as  I  see)  as  if  in  that  indeed 

He  caught  prodigious  import,  whole  results; 

And  so  will  turn  to  us  the  bystanders 

In  ever  the  same  stupor  (note  this  point) 

That  we  too  see  not  with  his  opened  eyes. 

Wonder  and  doubt  come  wrongly  into  play, 

Preposterously,  at  cross  purposes. 

Should  his  child  sicken  unto  death, — why,  look 

For  scarce  abatement  of  his  cheerfulness, 

Or  pretermission  of  the  daily  craft! 

While  a  word,  gesture,  glance  from  that  same  child 

At  play  or  in  the  school  or  laid  asleep 

Will  start  him  to  an  agony  of  fear, 

Exasperation,  just  as  like.     Demand 

The  reason  why — "  'tis  but  a  word,"  object — 

"A  gesture" — he  regards  thee  as  our  lord 

Who  lived  there  in  the  pyramid  alone, 

Looked  at  us  (dost  thou  mind?)  when,  being  young, 

We  both  would  unadvisedly  recite 

Some  charm's  beginning,  from  that  book  of  his, 

Able  to  bid  the  sun  throb  wide  and  burst 

All  into  stars,  as  suns  grown  old  are  wont. 


142  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Thou  and  the  child  have  each  a  veil  alike 

Thrown  o'er  your  heads,  from  under  which  ye  both 

Stretch  your  blind  hands  and  trifle  with  a  match 

Over  a  mine  of  Greek  fire,  did  ye  know! 

He  holds  on  firmly  to  some  thread  of  life — 

(It  is  the  life  to  lead  perforcedly) 

Which  runs  across  some  vast  distracting  orb 

Of  glory  on  either  side  that  meagre  thread, 

Which,  conscious  of,  he  must  not  enter  yet — 

The  spiritual  life  around  the  earthly  life: 

The  law  of  that  is  known  to  him  as  this, 

His  heart  and  brain  move  there,  his  feet  stay  here. 

So  is  the  man  perplext  with  impulses 

Sudden  to  start  off  crosswise,  not  straight  on, 

Proclaiming  what  is  right  and  wrong  across, 

And  not  along,  this  black  thread  through  the  blaze — 

"It  should  be"  balked  by  "here  it  cannot  be." 

And  oft  the  man's  soul  springs  into  his  face 

As  if  he  saw  again  and  heard  again 

His  sage  that  bade  him  "Rise"  and  he  did  rise. 

Something,  a  word,  a  tick  of  the  blood  within 

Admonishes:  then  back  he  sinks  at  once 

To  ashes,  who  was  very  fire  before, 

In  sedulous  recurrence  to  his  trade 

Whereby  he  earneth  him  the  daily  bread; 

And  studiously  the  humbler  for  that  pride, 

Professedly  the  faultier  that  he  knows 

God's  secret,  while  he  holds  the  thread  of  life. 

Indeed  the  especial  marking  of  the  man 

Is  prone  submission  to  the  heavenly  will — 

Seeing  it,  what  it  is,  and  why  it  is. 

'Sayeth,  he  will  wait  patient  to  the  last 

For  that  same  death  which  must  restore  his  being 

To  equilibrium,  body  loosening  soul 

Divorced  even  now  by  premature  full  growth: 

He  will  live,  nay,  it  pleaseth  him  to  live 

So  long  as  God  please,  and  just  how  God  please. 

lie  even  seeketh  not  to  please  God  more 

(Which  meaneth,  otherwise)  than  as  God  please. 

Hence,  I  perceive  not  he  affects  to  preach 

The  doctrine  of  his  sect  whate'er  it  be, 

Make  proselytes  as  madmen  thirst  to  do: 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  143 

How  can  he  give  his  neighbour  the  real  ground, 

His  own  conviction?    Ardent  as  he  is — 

Call  his  great  truth  a  lie,  why,  still  the  old 

"Be  it  as  God  please"  reassureth  him. 

I  probed  the  sore  as  thy  disciple  should : 

"How,  beast,"  said  I,  "this  stolid  carelessness 

Sufficeth  thee,  when  Rome  is  on  her  march 

To  stamp  out  like  a  little  spark  thy  town, 

Thy  tribe,  thy  crazy  tale  and  thee  at  once?" 

He  merely  looked  with  his  large  eyes  on  me.  . 

The  man  is  apathetic,  you  deduce? 

Contrariwise,  he  loves  both  old  and  young, 

Able  and  weak,  affects  the  very  brutes 

And  birds — how  say  I?  flowers  of  the  field — 

As  a  wise  workman  recognises  tools 

In  a  master's  workshop,  loving  what  they  make. 

Thus  is  the  man  as  harmless  as  a  lamb: 

Only  impatient,  let  him  do  his  best. 

At  ignorance  and  carelessness  and  sin — 

An  indignation  which  is  promptly  curbed: 

As  when  in  certain  travel  I  have  feigned 

To  be  an  ignoramus  in  our  art 

According  to  some  preconceived  design, 

And  happed  to  hear  the  land's  practitioners, 

Steeped  in  conceit  sublimed  by  ignorance, 

Prattle  fantastically  on  disease, 

Its  cause  and  cure — and  I  must  hold  my  peace! 

Thou  wilt  object — Why  have  I  not  ere  this 
Sought  out  the  sage  himself,  the  Nazarenc 
Who  wrought  this  cure,  inquiring  at  the  source, 
Conferring  with  the  frankness  that  befits? 
Alas!  it  grieveth  me,  the  learned  leech 
Perished  in  a  tumult  many  years  ago, 
Accused  —our  learning's  fate — of  wizardry, 
Rebellion,  to  the  setting  up  a  rule 
And  creed  prodigious  as  described  to  me. 
His  death,  which  happened  when  the  earthquake  fell 
(Prefiguring,  as  soon  appeared,  the  loss 
To  occult  learning  in  our  lord  the  sage 
Who  lived  there  in  the  pyramid  alone) 
Was  wrought  by  the  mad  people — that's  their  wont! 
On  vain  recourse,  as  I  conjecture  it, 


144  ROBERT  BROWNING 

To  his  tried  virtue,  for  miraculous  help — 

How  could  he  stop  the  earthquake?    That's  their  way! 

The  other  imputations  must  be  lies; 

But  take  one,  though  I  loathe  to  give  it  thee, 

In  mere  respect  for  any  good  man's  fame. 

(And  after  all,  our  patient  Lazarus 

Is  stark  mad;  should  we  count  on  what  he  says? 

Perhaps  not:  though  in  writing  to  a  leech 

'Tis  well  to  keep  back  nothing  of  a  case.) 

This  man  so  cured  regards  the  curer,  then, 

As— God  forgive  me! — who  but  God  himself, 

Greater  and  sustainer  of  the  world, 

That  came  and  dwelt  in  flesh  on  it  awhile! 

— 'Sayeth  that  such  an  one  was  born  and  lived, 

Taught,  healed  the  sick,  broke  bread  at  his  own  house, 

Then  died,  with  Lazarus  by,  for  ought  I  know, 

And  yet  was  .    .    .  what  I  said  nor  choose  repeat, 

And  must  have  so  avouched  himself,  in  fact, 

In  hearing  of  this  very  Lazarus 

Who  saith — but  why  all  this  of  what  he  saith? 

Why  write  of  trivial  matters,  things  of  price 

Calling  at  every  moment  for  remark? 

I  noticed  on  the  margin  of  a  pool 

Blue-flowering  borage,  the  Aleppo  sort, 

Aboundeth,  very  nitrous.    It  is  strange! 

• 

Thy  pardon  for  this  long  and  tedious  case, 
Which,  now  that  I  review  it,  needs  must  seem 
Unduly  dwelt  on,  prolixly  set  forth! 
Nor  I  myself  discern  in  what  is  writ 
Good  cause  for  the  peculiar  interest 
And  awe  indeed  this  man  has  touched  me  with. 
Perhaps  the  journey's  end,  the  weariness 
Had  wrought  upon  me  first.     I  met  him  thus: 
I  crossed  a  ridge  of  short  sharp  broken  hills 
Like  an  old  lion's  cheek  teeth.     Out  there  came 
A  moon  made  like  a  face  with  certain  spots 
Multiform,  manifold,  and  menacing: 
Then  a  wind  rose  behind  me.    So  we  met 
In  this  old  sleepy  town  at  unaware, 
The  man  and  I.     I  send  thee  what  is  writ. 
Regard  it  as  a  chance,  a  matter  risked 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  145 

To  this  ambiguous  Syrian — he  may  lose, 
Or  steal,  or  give  it  thee  with  equal  good. 
Jerusalem's  repose  shall  make  amends 
For  time  this  letter  wastes,  thy  time  and  mine; 
Till  when,  once  more  thy  pardon  and  farewell! 

The  very  God!  think,  Abib;  dost  thou  think? 
So,  the  All-Great,  were  the  All-Loving  too— 
So,  through  the  thunder  comes  a  human  voice 
Saying,  "0  heart  I  made,  a  heart  beats  here! 
Face,  my  hands  fashioned,  see  it  in  myself! 
Thou  hast  no  power  nor  may'st  conceive  of  mine, 
But  love  I  gave  thee,  with  myself  to  love, 
And  thou  must  love  me  who  have  died  for  thee!" 
The  madman  saith  He  said  so:  it  is  strange.1 

(1855.) 


JOHANNES  AGRICOLA*  IN   MEDITATION 

There's  heaven  above,  and  night  by  night 

I  look  right  through  its  gorgeous  roof; 
No  suns  and  moons  though  e'er  so  bright 

Avail  to  stop  me;  splendour-proof 

I  keep  the  broods  of  stars  aloof: 
For  I  intend  to  get  to  God, 

For  'tis  to  God  I  speed  so  fast, 
For  in  God's  breast,  my  own  abode, 

Those  shoals  of  dazzling  glory,  passed, 

I  lay  my  spirit  down  at  last. 
I  lie  where  I  have  always  lain, 

God  smiles  as  he  has  always  smiled; 
Ere  suns  and  moons  could  wax  and  wane, 

Ere  stars  were  thundergirt,  or  piled 

The  heavens,  God  thought  on  me  his  child; 
Ordained  a  life  for  me,  arrayed 

Its  circumstances  every  one 
To  the  minutest;  ay,  God  said 

This  head  this  hand  should  rest  upon 

1  The  account  of  the  raising  of  Lazarus  is  in  St.  John  11 :  1-46. 
!  A  friend  of  Martin  Luther. 


146  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Thus,  ere  he  fashioned  star  or  sun. 
And  having  thus  created  me, 

Thus  rooted  me,  he  bade  me  grow, 
Guiltless  for  ever,  like  a  tree 

That  buds  and  blooms,  nor  seeks  to  know 

The  law  by  which  it  prospers  so: 
But  sure  that  thought  and  word  and  deed 

All  go  to  swell  his  love  for  me, 
Me,  made  because  that  love  had  need 

Of  something  irreversibly 

Pledged  solely  its  content  to  be. 
Yes,  yes,  a  tree  which  must  ascend, 

No  poison-gourd  foredoomed  to  stoop! 
I  have  God's  warrant,  could  I  blend 

All  hideous  sins,  as  in  a  cup, 

To  drink  the  mingled  venoms  up; 
Secure  my  nature  will  convert 

The  draught  to  blossoming  gladness  fast: 
While  sweet  dews  turn  to  the  gourd's  hurt, 

And  bloat,  and  while  they  bloat  it,  blast, 

As  from  the  first  its  lot  was  cast. 
For  as  I  lie,  smiled  on,  full-fed 

By  unexhausted  power  to  bless, 
I  gaze  below  on  hell's  fierce  bed, 

And  those  its  waves  of  flame  oppress, 

Swarming  in  ghastly  wretchedness; 
Whose  life  on  earth  aspired  to  be 

One  altar-smoke,  so  pure! — to  win 
If  not  love  like  God's  love  for  me, 

At  least  to  keep  his  anger  in; 

And  all  their  striving  turned  to  sin. 
Priest,  doctor,  hermit,  monk  grown  white 

With  prayer,  the  broken-hearted  nun, 
The  martyr,  the  wan  acolyte, 

The  incense-swinging  child, — undone 

Before  God  fashioned  star  or  sun! 
God,  whom  I  praise;  how  could  I  praise, 

If  such  as  I  might  understand, 
Make  out  and  reckon  on  his  ways, 

And  bargain  for  his  love,  and  stand, 

Paying  a  price,  at  his  right  hand? 

(1842.) 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  147 

PICTOR  IGNOTUS1 

FLORENCE,    15 — 

I  could  have  painted  pictures  like  that  youth's 

Ye  praise  so.     How  my  soul  springs  up!     No  bar 
Stayed  me — ah,  thought  which  saddens  while  it  soothes! 

—Never  did  fate  forbid  me,  star  by  star, 
To  outburst  on  your  night  with  all  my  gift 

Of  fires  from  God:  nor  would  my  flesh  have  shrunk 
From  seconding  my  soul,  with  eyes  uplift 

And  wide  to  heaven,  or,  straight  like  thunder,  sunk 
To  the  centre,  of  an  instant;  or  around 

Turned  calmly  and  inquisitive,  to  scan 
The  license  and  the  limit,  space  and  bound, 

Allowed  to  truth  made  visible  in  man. 
And,  like  that  youth  ye  praise  so,  all  I  saw, 

Over  the  canvass  could  my  hand  have  flung, 
Each  face  obedient  to  its  passion's  law, 

Each  passion  clear  proclaimed  without  a  tongue; 
Whether  Hope  rose  at  once  in  all  the  blood, 

A-tiptoe  for  the  blessing  of  embrace, 
Or  Rapture  drooped  the  eyes,  as  when  her  brood 

Pull  down  the  nesting  dove's  heart  to  its  place; 
Or  Confidence  lit  swift  the  forehead  up, 

And  locked  the  mouth  fast,  like  a  castle  braved, — 

0  human  faces,  hath  it  spilt,  my  cup? 

What  did  ye  give  me  that  I  have  not  saved? 
Nor  will  I  say  I  have  not  dreamed  (how  well!) 

Of  going — I.  in  each  new  picture, — forth, 
As,  making  new  hearts  beat  and  bosoms  swell, 

To  Pope  or  Kaiser,  East,  West,  South  or  North, 
Bound  for  the  calmly-satisfied  great  State, 

Or  glad  aspiring  little  burgh,  it  went, 
Flowers  cast  upon  the  car  which  bore  the  freight, 

Through  old  streets  named  afresh  from  the  event, 
Till  it  reached  home,  where  learned  age  should  greet 

My  faco,  and  youth,  the  star  not  yet  distinct 
Above  his  hair,  lie  learning  at  my  feet!- — 

Oh,  thus  to  live,  I  and  my  picture,  linked 
With  love  about,  and  praise,  till  life  should  end, 

1  The  unknown  painter. 


148  ROBERT  BROWNING 

And  then  not  go  to  heaven,  but  linger  here, 
Here  on  my  earth,  earth's  every  man  my  friend, — 

The  thought  grew  frightful,  'twas  so  wildly  dear! 
But  a  voice  changed  it.     Glimpses  of  such  sights 

Have  scared  me,  like  the  revels  though  a  door 
Of  some  strange  house  of  idols  at  its  rites ! 

This  world  seemed  not  the  world  it  was  before: 
Mixed  with  my  loving  trusting  ones,  there  trooped 

.  .  .  Who  summoned  those  cold  faces  that  begun 
To  press  on  me  and  judge  me?     Though  I  stooped 

Shrinking,  as  from  the  soldiery  a  nun, 
They  drew  me  forth,  and  spite  of  me  .  .  .  enough! 

These  buy  and  sell  our  pictures,  take  and  give, 
Count  them  for  garniture  and  household-stuff, 

And  where  they  live  needs  must  our  pictures  live 
And  see  their  faces,  listen  to  their  prate, 

Partakers  of  their  daily  pettiness, 
Discussed  of, — "This  I  love,  or  this  I  hate, 

This  likes  me  more,  and  this  affects  me  less!" 
Wherefore  I  chose  my  portion.     If  at  whiles 

My  heart  sinks,  as  monotonous  I  paint 
These  endless  cloisters  and  eternal  aisles 

With  the  same  series,  Virgin,  Babe  and  Saint, 
With  the  same  cold,  calm,  beautiful  regard,— 

At  least  no  merchant  traffics  in  my  heart; 
The  sanctuary's  gloom  at  least  shall  ward 

Vain  tongues  from  where  my  pictures  stand  apart: 
Only  prayer  breaks  the  silence  of  the  shrine 

While,  blackening  in  the  daily  candle-smoke, 
They  moulder  on  the  damp  wall's  travertine, 

'Mid  echoes  the  light  footstep  never  woke. 
So,  die  my  pictures!  surely,  gently  die! 

0  youth,  men  praise  so, — holds  their  praise  its  worth? 
Blown  harshly,  keeps  the  trump  its  golden  cry? 

Tastes  sweet  the  water  with  such  specks  of  earth? 

(1845.) 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  149 

FRA  LIPPO  LIPPI* 

I  am  poor  brother  Lippo,  by  your  leave! 

You  need  not  clap  your  torches  to  my  face. 

Zooks,  what's  to  blame?  you  think  you  see  a  monk! 

What,  'tis  past  midnight,  and  you  go  the  rounds, 

And  here  you  catch  me  at  an  alley's  end 

Where  sportive  ladies  leave  their  doors  ajar? 

The  Carmine's  my  cloister:  hunt  it  up, 

Do, — harry  out,  if  you  must  show  your  zeal, 

Whatever  rat,  there,  haps  on  his  wrong  hole, 

And  nip  each  softling  of  a  wee  white  mouse, 

Weke,  weke,  that's  crept  to  keep  him  company! 

Aha,  you  know  your  betters!    Then,  you'll  take 

Your  hand  away  that's  fiddling  on  my  throat, 

And  please  to  know  me  likewise.     Who  am  I? 

Why,  one,  sir,  who  is  lodging  with  a  friend 

Three  streets  off — he's  a  certain  .  .  .  how  d'ye  call? 

Master — a  .  .  .  Cosimo  of  the  Medici, 

I'  the  house  that  caps  the  corner.     Boh!  you  were  best! 

Remember  and  tell  me,  the  day  you're  hanged, 

How  you  affected  such  a  gullet's-gripe! 

But  you,  sir,  it  concerns  you  that  your  knaves 

Pick  up  a  manner  nor  discredit  you: 

Zooks,  are  we  pilchards,  that  they  sweep  the  streets 

And  count  fair  prize  what  comes  into  their  net? 

He's  Judas  to  a  tittle,  that  man  is! 

Just  such  a  face!     Why,  sir,  you  make  amends. 

Lord,  I'm  not  angry!     Bid  your  hangdogs  go 

Drink  out  this  quarter-florin  to  the  health 

Of  the  munificent  House  that  harbors  me 

(And  many  more  beside,  lads!  more  beside!) 

And  all's  come  square  again.     I'd  like  his  face — 

His,  elbowing  on  his  comrade  in  the  door 

With  the  pike  and  lantern, — for  the  slave  that  holds 

John  Baptist's  head  a-dangle  by  the  hair 

With  one  hand  ("Look  you,  now,"  as  who  should  say) 

And  his  weapon  in  the  other,  yet  unwiped! 

It's  not  your  chance  to  have  a  bit  of  chalk, 

1  Florentine  painter,  member  of   the   Carmine  friars  (1406-1469). 
Cosimo  de  Medici  was  his  patron. 


150  ROBERT  BROWNING 

A  wood-coal  or  the  like?  or  you  should  see! 

Yes,  I'm  the  painter,  since  you  style  me  so. 

What,  brother  Lippo's  doings,  up  and  down, 

You  know  them  and  they  take  you?  like  enough ! 

I  saw  the  proper  twinkle  in  your  eye — 

'Tell  you,  I  liked  your  looks  at  very  first. 

Let's  sit  and  set  things  straight  now,  hip  to  haunch. 

Here's  spring  come,  and  the  nights  one  makes  up  bands 

To  roam  the  town  and  sing  out  carnival, 

And  I've  been  three  weeks  shut  within  my  mew, 

A-painting  for  the  great  man,  saints  and  saints 

And  saints  again.     I  could  not  paint  all  night — 

Ouf!     I  leaned  out  of  window  for  fresh  air. 

There  came  a  hurry  of  feet  and  little  feet, 

A  sweep  of  lute-strings,  laughs,  and  whifts  of  song, — 

Flower  o'  the  broom, 

Take  away  love,  and  our  earth  is  a  tomb! 

Flower  o'  the  quince, 

I  let  Lisa  go,  and  what  good  in  life  since? 

Flower  o'  the  thyme — and  so  on.     Round  they  went. 

Scarce  had  they  turned  the  corner  when  a  titter 

Like  the  skipping  of  rabbits  by  moonlight, — three  slim 

shapes, 
And  a  face  that  looked  up  ...  zooks,  sir,  flesh  and 

blood, 

That's  all  I'm  made  of!     Into  shreds  it  went, 
Curtain  and  counterpane  and  coverlet, 
All  the  bed-furniture — a  dozen  knots, 
There  was  a  ladder!     Down  I  let  myself, 
Hands  and  feet,  scrambling  somehow,  and  so  dropped, 
And  after  them.     I  came  up  with  the  fun 
Hard  by  Saint  Laurence,  hail  fellow,  well  met, — 
Flower  o'  the  rose, 

If  I've  been  merry,  what  matter  who  knows? 
And  so  as  I  was  stealing  back  again 
To  get  to  bed  and  have  a  bit  of  sleep 
Ere  I  rise  up  to-morrow  and  go  work 
On  Jerome  knocking  at  his  poor  old  breast 
With  his  great  round  stone  to  subdue  the  flesh, 
You  snap  me  of  the  sudden.     Ah,  I  see! 
Though  your  eye  twinkles  still,  you  shake  your  head — 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  151 

Mine's  shaved — a  monk,  you  say — the  sting's  in  that! 

If  Master  Cosimo  announced  himself, 

Mum's  the  word  naturally;  but  a  monk! 

Come,  what  am  I  a  beast  for?  tell  us,  now! 

I  was  a  baby  when  my  mother  died 

And  father  died  and  left  me  in  the  street. 

I  starved  there,  God  knows  how,  a  year  or  two 

On  fig-skins,  melon-parings,  rinds  and  shucks, 

Refuse  and  rubbish.     One  fine  frosty  day, 

My  stomach  being  empty  as  your  hat, 

The  wind  doubled  me  up  and  down  I  went. 

Old  Aunt  Lapaccia  trussed  me  with  one  hand, 

(Its  fellow  was  a  stinger  as  I  knew) 

And  so  along  the  wall,  over  the  bridge, 

By  the  straight  cut  to  the  convent.     Six  words  there, 

While  I  stood  munching  my  first  bread  that  month: 

"So,  boy,  you're  minded,"  quoth  the  good  fat  father, 

Wiping  his  own  mouth,  'twas  refection-time, — 

"To  quit  this  very  miserable  world? 

Will   you   renounce"  .  .  .  "the   mouthful   of   bread?" 

thought  I; 

By  no  means!     Brief,  they  made  a  monk  of  me; 
I  did  renounce  the  world,  its  pride  and  greed, 
Palace,  farm,  villa,  shop,  and  banking-house, 
Trash,  such  as  these  poor  devils  of  Medici 
Have  given  their  hearts  to — all  at  eight  years  old. 
Well,  sir,  I  found  in  time,  you  may  be  sure, 
'Twas  not  for  nothing — the  good  bellyful. 
The  warm  serge  and  the  rope  that  goes  all  round, 
And  day-long  blessed  idleness  beside! 
"Let's  see  what  the  urchin's  fit  for" — that  came  next- 
Not  overmuch  their  way,  I  must  confess. 
Such  a  to-do!     They  tried  me  with  their  books; 
Lord,  they'd  have  taught  me  Latin  in  pure  waste! 
Flower  o'  the  clove, 

All  the  Latin  I  construe  is  "amo,"  I  love! 
But,  mind  you,  when  a  boy  starves  in  the  streets 
Eight  years  together,  as  my  fortune  was, 
Watching  folk's  faces  to  know  who  will  fling 
The  bit  of  half-stripped  grape-bunch  he  desires, 
And  who  will  curse  or  kick  him  for  his  pains, — 


152  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Which  gentleman  processional  and  fine,  . 

Holding  a  candle  to  the  Sacrament, 

Will  wink  and  let  him  lift  a  plate  and  catch 

The  droppings  of  the  wax  to  sell  again, 

Or  holla  for  the  Eight  and  have  him  whipped, — 

How  say  I? — nay,  which  dog  bites,  which  lets  drop 

His  bone  from  the  heap  of  offal  in  the  street, — 

Why,  soul  and  sense  of  him  grow  sharp  alike, 

He  learns  the  look  of  things,  and  none  the  less 

For  admonition  from  the  hunger-pinch. 

I  had  a  store  of  such  remarks,  be  sure, 

Which,  after  I  found  leisure,  turned  to  use. 

I  drew  men's  faces  on  my  copy-books, 

Scrawled  them  within  the  antiphonary's  marge, 

Joined  legs  and  arms  to  the  long  music-notes, 

Found  eyes  and  nose  and  chin  for  A's  and  B's, 

And  made  a  string  of  pictures  of  the  world 

Betwixt  the  ins  and  outs  of  verb  and  noun, 

On  the  wall,  the  bench,  the  door.     The  monks  looked 

black. 

"Nay,"  quoth  the  Prior,  "turn  him  out,  d'ye  say? 
In  no  wise.     Lose  a  crow  and  catch  a  lark. 
What  if  at  last  we  get  our  man  of  parts, 
We  Carmelites,  like  those  Camaldolese 
And  Preaching  Friars,  to  do  our  churph  up  fine 
And  put  the  front  on  it  that  ought  to  be!" 
And  hereupon  he  bade  me  daub  away. 
Thank  you!  my  head  being  crammed,  the  walls  a  blank, 
Never  was  such  prompt  disemburdening. 
First,  every  sort  of  monk,  the  black  and  white, 
I  drew  them,  fat  and  lean:  then,  folk  at  church, 
From  good  old  gossips  waiting  to  confess 
Their  cribs  of  barrel-droppings,  candle-ends, — 
To  the  breathless  fellow  at  the  altar-foot, 
Fresh  from  his  murder,  safe  and  sitting  there 
With  the  little  children  round  him  in  a  row 
Of  admiration,  half  for  his  beard  and  half 
For  that  white  anger  of  his  victim's  son 
Shaking  a  fist  at  him  with  one  fierce  arm, 
Signing  himself  with  the  other  because  of  Christ 
(Whose  sad  face  on  the  cross  sees  only  this 
After  the  passion  of  a  thousand  years) 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  153 

Till  some  poor  girl,  her  apron  o'er  her  head, 

(Which  the  intense  eyes  looked  through)  came  at  eve 

On  tiptoe,  said  a  word,  dropped  in  a  loaf, 

Her  pair  of  earrings  and  a  bunch  of  flowers 

(The  brute  took  growling),  prayed,  and  so  was  gone. 

I  painted  all,  then  cried  "'Tis  ask  and  have; 

Choose,  for  more's  ready!" — laid  the  ladder  flat, 

And  showed  my  covered  bit  of  cloister- wall. 

The  monks  closed  in  a  circle  and  praised  loud 

Till  checked,  taught  what  to  see  and  not  to  see, 

Being  simple  bodies, — "That's  the  very  man! 

Look  at  the  boy  who  stoops  to  pat  the  dog! 

That  woman's  like  the  Prior's  niece  who  comes 

To  care  about  his  asthma:  it's  the  life!" 

But  there  my  triumph's  straw-fire  flared  and  funked; 

Their  betters  took  their  turn  to  see  and  say: 

The  Prior  and  the  learned  pulled  a  face 

And  stopped  all  that  in  no  time.     "How?  what's  here? 

Quite  from  the  mark  of  painting,  bless  us  all! 

Faces,  arms,  legs,  and  bodies  like  the  true 

As  much  as  pea  and  pea!  it's  devil's-game! 

Your  business  is  not  to  catch  men  with  show, 

With  homage  to  the  perishable  clay, 

But  lift  them  over  it,  ignore  it  all, 

Make  them  forget  there's  such  a  thing  as  flesh. 

Your  business  is  to  paint  the  souls  of  men — 

Man's  soul,  and  it's  a  fire,  smoke  .    .    .  no,  it's  not  .    .    . 

It's  vapor  done  up  like  a  new-born  babe — 

(In  that  shape  when  you  die  it  leaves  your  mouth) 

It's   .    .    .  well,  what  matters  talking,  it's  the  soul! 

Give  us  no  more  of  body  than  shows  soul! 

Here's  Giotto,1  with  his  Saint  a-praising  God, 

That  sets  us  praising, — why  not  stop  with  him? 

Why  put  all  thoughts  of  praise  out  of  our  head 

With  wonder  at  lines,  colors,  and  what  not? 

Paint  the  soul,  never  mind  the  legs  and  arms! 

Rub  all  out,  try  at  it  a  second  time. 

Oh,  that  white  smallish  female  with  the  breasts, 

She's  just  my  niece   .    .    .   Herodias,2  I  would  say, — 

1  Italian  artist  (12677-1337). 

2  St.  Matthew  14:6-11. 


154  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Who  went  and  danced  and  got  men's  heads  cut  off! 

Have  it  all  out!"     Now,  is  this  sense,  I  ask? 

A  fine  way  to  paint  soul,  by  painting  body 

So  ill,  the  eye  can't  stop  there,  must  go  further 

And  can't  fare  worse!    Thus,  yellow  does  for  white 

When  what  you  put  for  yellow's  simply  black, 

And  any  sort  of  meaning  looks  intense 

When  all  beside  itself  means  and  looks  naught. 

Why  can't  a  painter  lift  each  foot  in  turn, 

Left  foot  and  right  foot,  go  a  double  step, 

Make  his  flesh  liker  and  his  soul  more  like, 

Both  in  their  order?     Take  the  prettiest  face, 

The  Prior's  niece   .    .    .   patron-saint — is  it  so  pretty 

You  can't  discover  if  it  means  hope,  fear, 

Sorrow  or  joy?  won't  beauty  go  with  these? 

Suppose  I've  made  her  eyes  all  right  and  blue, 

Can't  I  take  breath  and  try  to  add  life's  flash, 

And  then  add  soul  and  heighten  them  threefold? 

Or  say  there's  beauty  with  no  soul  at  all — 

(I  never  saw  it — put  the  case  the  same — ) 

If  you  get  simple  beauty  and  naught  else, 

You  get  about  the  best  thing  God  invents: 

That's  somewhat:  and  you'll  find  the  soul  you  have 

missed, 

Within  yourself,  when  you  return  him  thanks. 
"Rub  all  out!"     Well,  well,  there's  my  life,  in  short, 
And  so  the  thing  has  gone  on  ever  since. 
I'm  grown  a  man  no  doubt,  I've  broken  bounds: 
You  should  not  take  a  fellow  eight  years  old 
And  make  him  swear  to  never  kiss  the  girls. 
I'm  my  own  master,  paint  now  as  I  ploase — 
Having  a  friend,  you  see,  in  the  Corner-house! 
Lord,  it's  fast  holding  by  the  rings  in  front—- 
Those great  rings  serve  more  purposes  than  just 
To  plant  a  flag  in,  or  tie  up  a  horse! 
And  yet  the  old  schooling  sticks,  the  old  grave  eyes 
Are  peeping  o'er  my  shoulder  as  I  work, 
The  heads  shake  still — "It's  art's  decline,  my  son! 
You're  not  of  the  true  painters,  great  and  old; 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  155 

Brother  Angelico's1  the  man,  you'll  find; 

Brother  Lorenzo  stands  his  single  peer: 

Fag  on  a  flesh,  you'll  never  make  the  third!" 

Flower  o '  the  pine, 

You  keep  your  mistr  .    .    .    manners,  and  I'll  stick  to 

mine! 

I'm  not  the  third,  then:  bless  us,  they  must  know! 
Don't  you  think  they're  the  likeliest^to  know, 
They  with  their  Latin?    So,  I  swallow  my  rage, 
Clench  my  teeth,  suck  my  lips  in  tight,  and  paint 
To  please  them — sometimes  do  and  sometimes  don't; 
For,  doing  most,  there's  pretty  sure  to  come 
A  turn,  some  warm  eve  finds  me  at  my  saints — 
A  laugh,  a  cry,  the  business  of  the  world — 
(Flower  o'  the  peach, 

Death  for  us  all,  and  his  own  life  for  each!} 
And  my  whole  soul  revolves,  the  cup  runs  over, 
The  world  and  life's  top  big  to  pass  for  a  dream, 
And  I  do  these  wild  things  in  sheer  despite, 
And  play  the  fooleries  you  catch  me  at, 
In  pure  rage!     The  old  mill-horse,  out  at  grass 
After  hard  years,  throws  up  his  stiff  heels  so, 
Although  the  miller  does  not  preach  to  him 
The  only  good  of  grass  is  to  make  chaff. 
What  would  men  have?     Do  they  like  grass  or  no — 
May  they  or  may  n't  they?    All  I  want's  the  thing 
Settled  forever  one  way.     As  it  is, 
You  tell  too  many  lies  and  hurt  yourself: 
You  don't  like  what  you  only  like  too  much, 
You  do  like  what,  if  given  you  at  your  word, 
You  find  abundantly  detestable. 
For  me,  I  think  I  speak  as  I  was  taught; 
I  always  see  the  garden  and  God  there 
A-making  man's  wife:  and,  my  lesson  learned, 
The  value  and  significance  of  flesh, 
I  can't  unlearn  ten  minutes  afterwards. 

You  understand  me:  I'm  a  beast,  I  know. 
But  see,  now — why,  I  see  as  certainly 

1  Fra  Angelico  (1387-1455),  greatest  of  Italian  monastic  painters. 


156  ROBERT  BROWNING 

As  that  the  morning-star's  about  to  shine, 

What  will  hap  some  day.    We've  a  youngster  here 

Comes  to  our  convent,  studies  what  I  do, 

Slouches  and  stares  and  lets  no  atom  drop: 

His  name  is  Guidi — he'll  not  mind  the  monks — 

They  call  him  Hulking  Tom,  he  lets  them  talk — 

He  picks  my  practice  up — he'll  paint  apace, 

I  hope  so — though  I  never  live  so  long, 

I  know  what's  sure  to  follow.    You  be  judge! 

You  speak  no  Latin  more  than  I,  belike; 

However,  you're  my  man,  you've  seen  the  world 

— The  beauty  and  the  wonder  and  the  power, 

The  shapes  of  things,  their  colors,  lights  and  shades, 

Changes,  surprises, — and  God  made  it  all! 

— For  what?     Do  you  feel  thankful,  ay  or  no, 

For  this  fair  town's  face,  yonder  river's  line, 

The  mountain  round  it  and  the  sky  above, 

Much  more  the  figures  of  man,  woman,  child, 

These  are  the  frame  to?    What's  it  all  about? 

To  be  passed  over,  despised?  or  dwelt  upon, 

Wondered  at?  oh,  this  last  of  course! — you  say. 

But  why  not  do  as  well  as  say, — paint  these 

Just  as  they  are,  careless  what  comes  of  it? 

God's  works — paint  any  one,  and  count  it  crime 

To  let  a  truth  slip.     Don't  object,  "His  works 

Are  here  already;  nature  is  complete: 

Suppose  you  reproduce  her — (which  you  can't) 

There's  no  advantage!  you  must  beat  her,  then." 

For,  don't  you  mark?  we're  made  so  that  we  love 

First  when  we  see  them  painted,  things  we  have  passed 

Perhaps  a  hundred  times  nor  cared  to  see; 

And  so  they  are  better,  painted — better  to  us, 

Which  is  the  same  thing.     Art  was  given  for  that; 

God  uses  us  to  help  each  other  so, 

Lending  our  minds  out.     Have  you  noticed,  now, 

Your  cullion's  hanging  face?     A  bit  of  chalk, 

And  trust  me  but  you  should,  though!    How  much 

more, 

If  I  drew  higher  things  with  the  same  truth! 
That  were  to  take  the  Prior's  pulpit-place, 
Interpret  God  to  all  of  you!     Oh,  oh, 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  157 

It  makes  me  mad  to  see  what  men  shall  do 

And  we  in  our  graves!    This  world's  no  blot  for  us, 

Nor  blank;  it  means  intensely,  and  means  good: 

To  find  its  meaning  is  my  meat  and  drink. 

"Ay,  but  you  don't  so  instigate  to  prayer!" 

•Strikes  in  the  Prior:  "when  your  meaning's  plain 

It  does  not  say  to  folk — remember  matins, 

Or,  mind  you  fast  next  Friday!"    Why,  for  this 

What  need  of  art  at  all?    A  skull  and  bones, 

Two  bits  of  stick  nailed  crosswise,  or,  what's  best, 

A  bell  to  chime  the  hour  with,  does  as  well. 

I  painted  a  Saint  Laurence  six  months  since 

At  Prato,  splashed  the  fresco  in  fine  style: 

"How  looks  my  painting,  now  the  scaffold's  down?" 

I  ask  a  brother:  "Hugely,"  he  returns — 

"Already  not  one  phiz  of  your  three  slaves 

Who  turn  the  Deacon  off  his  toasted  side, 

But's  scratched  and  prodded  to  our  heart's  content, 

The  pious  people  have  so  eased  their  own 

With  coming  to  say  prayers  there  in  a  rage : 

We  get  on  fast  to  see  the  bricks  beneath. 

Expect  another  job  this  time  next  year, 

For  pity  and  religion  grow  i '  the  crowd — 

Your  painting  serves  its  purpose!"     Hang  the  fools! 

— That  is — you'll  not  mistake  an  idle  word 

Spoke  in  a  huff  by  a  poor  monk,  God  wot, 

Tasting  the  air  this  spicy  night  which  turns 

The  unaccustomed  head  like  Chianti  wine! 

Oh,  the  church  knows!  don't  misreport  me,  now! 

It's  natural  a  poor  monk  out  of  bounds 

Should  have  his  apt  word  to  excuse  himself: 

And  hearken  how  I  plot  to  make  amends. 

I  have  bethought  me:  I  shall  paint  a  piece 

.    .    .  There's  for  you!    Give  me  six  months,  then  go, 

see 

Something  in  Sant'  Ambrogio's!     Bless  the  nuns! 
They  want  a  cast  o'  my  office.     I  shall  paint1 
God  in  the  midst,  Madonna  and  her  babe, 

1  The  picture  described  is  his  Coronation  of  the  Virgin,  now  in  a 
gallery  in  Florence. 


158  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Ringed  by  a  bowery,  flowery  angel-brood, 

Lilies  and  vestments  and  white  faces,  sweet 

As  puff  on  puff  of  grated  orris-root 

When  ladies  crowd  to  Church  at  midsummer. 

And  then  i'  the  front,  of  course  a  saint  or  two — 

Saint  John,  because  he  saves  the  Florentines, 

Saint  Ambrose,  who  puts  down  in  black  and  white 

The  convent's  friends  and  gives  them  a  long  day, 

And  Job,  I  must  have  him  there  past  mistake, 

The  man  of  Uz  (and  Us  without  the  z, 

Painters  who  need  his  patience).     Well,  all  these 

Secured  at  their  devotion,  up  shall  come 

Out  of  a  corner  when  you  least  expect, 

As  one  by  a  dark  stair  into  a  great  light, 

Music  and  talking,  who  but  Lippo!     I! — 

Mazed,  motionless,  and  moonstruck — I'm  the  man! 

Back  I  shrink — what  is  this  I  see  and  hear? 

I,  caught  up  with  my  monk's-things  by  mistake, 

My  old  serge  gown  and  rope  that  goes  all  round, 

I,  in  this  presence,  this  pure  company! 

Where's  a  hole,  where's  a  corner  for  escape? 

Then  steps  a  sweet  angelic  slip  of  a  thing 

Forward,  puts  out  a  soft  palm — "Not  so  fast!" 

— Addresses  the  celestial  presence,  "nay — 

He  made  you  and  devised  you,  after  all, 

Though   he's  none   of  you!     Could   Saint   John  there 

draw — 

His  camel-hair  make  up  a  painting-brush? 
We  come  to  brother  Lippo  for  all  that, 
Iste  perfecit  opus1 !  "     So,  all  smile — 
I  shuffle  sideways  with  my  blushing  face 
Under  the  cover  of  a  hundred  wings 
Thrown  like  a  spread  of  kirtles  when  you're  gay 
And  play  hot  cockles,  all  the  doors  being  shut, 
Till,  wholly  unexpected,  in  there  pops 
The  hothead  husband!     Thus  I  scuttle  off 
To  some  safe  bench  behind,  not  letting  go 
The  palm  of  her,  the  little  lily  thing 
That  spoke  the  good  word  for  me  in  the  nick, 

1  This  man  did  the  work. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  159 

Like  the  Prior's  niece   .    .    .  Saint  Lucy,  I  would  say. 
And  so  all's  saved  for  me,  and  for  the  church 
A  pretty  picture  gained.     Go,  six  months  hence! 
Your  hand,  sir,  and  good-bye:  no  lights,  no  lights! 
The  street's  hushed,  and  I  know  my  own  way  back 
Don't  fear  me!     There's  the  gray  beginning.     Zooks! 

(1855.) 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO1 

(CALLED  "THE  FAULTLESS  PAINTER") 

But  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more, 
No,  my  Lucrezia;  bear  with  me  for  once: 
Sit  down  and  all  shall  happen  as  you  wish. 
You  turn  your  face,  but  does  it  bring  your  heart? 
I'll  work  then  for  your  friend's  friend,  never  fear, 
Treat  his  own  subject  after  his  own  way, 
Fix  his  own  time,  accept  too  his  own  price, 
And  shut  the  money  into  this  small  hand 
When  next  it  takes  mine.     Will  it?  tenderly? 
Oh,  I'll  content  him, — but  to-morrow,  Love! 
I  often  am  much  wearier  than  you  think, 
This  evening  more  than  usual,  and  it  seems 
As  if — forgive  now — should  you  let  me  sit 
Here  by  the  window  with  your  hand  in  mine 
And  look  a  half-hour  forth  on  Fiesole, 
Both  of  one  mind,  as  married  people  use, 
Quietly,  quietly  the  evening  through, 
I  might  get  up  to-morrow  to  my  work 
Cheerful  and  fresh  as  ever.     Let  us  try. 
To-morrow,  how  you  shall  be  glad  for  this ! 
Your  soft  hand  is  a  woman  of  itself, 
And  mine  the  man's  bared  breast  she  curls  inside. 
Don't  count  the  time  lost,  neither;  you  must  serve 
For  each  of  the  five  pictures  we  require: 
It  saves  a  model.     So!  keep  looking  so — 
My  serpentining  beauty,  rounds  on  rounds! 
— How  could  you  ever  prick  those  perfect  ears, 
Even  to  put  the  pearl  there!  oh,  so  sweet — 

1  Florentine  artist  (1487-1531). 


160  ROBERT  BROWNING 

My  face,  my  moon,  my  everybody's  moon, 

Which  everybody  looks  on  and  calls  his, 

And,  I  suppose,  is  looked  on  by  in  turn, 

While  she  looks — no  one's:  very  dear,  no  less. 

You  smile?  why,  there's  my  picture  ready  made, 

There's  what  we  painters  call  our  harmony! 

A  common  grayness  silvers  everything, — 

All  in  a  twilight,  you  and  I  alike 

— You,  at  the  point  of  your  first  pride  in  me 

(That's  gone  you  know),1— but  I,  at  every  point; 

My  youth,  my  hope,  my  art,  being  all  toned  down 

To  yonder  sober  pleasant  Fiesole. 

There's  the  bell  clinking  from  the  chapel-top; 

That  length  of  convent-wall  across  the  way 

Holds  the  trees  safer,  huddled  more  inside; 

The  last  monk  leaves  the  garden;  days  decrease, 

And  autumn  grows,  autumn  in  everything. 

Eh?  the  whole  seems  to  fall  into  a  shape 

As  if  I  saw  alike  my  work  and  self 

And  all  that  I  was  born  to  be  and  do, 

A  twilight-piece.     Love,  we  are  in  God's  hand. 

How  strange  now  looks  the  life  he  makes  us  lead; 

So  free  we  seem,  so  fettered  fast  we  are! 

I  feel  he  laid  the  fetter:  let  it  lie! 

This  chamber  for  example — turn  your  head — 

All  that's  behind  us!    You  don't  understand 

Nor  care  to  understand  about  my  art, 

But  you  can  hear  at  least  when  people  speak: 

And  that  cartoon,  the  second  from  the  door 

— It  is  the  thing,  Love!  so  such  thing  should  be — 

Behold  Madonna! — I  am  bold  to  say. 

I  can  do  with  my  pencil  what  I  know, 

What  I  see,  what  at  bottom  of  my  heart 

I  wish  for,  if  I  ever  wish  so  deep — 

Do  easily,  too — when  I  say,  perfectly, 

I  do  not  boast,  perhaps:  yourself  are  judge, 

Who  listened  to  the  Legate's  talk  last  week, 

And  just  as  much  they  used  to  say  in  France. 

At  any  rate  't  is  easy,  all  of  it! 

No  sketches  first,  no  studies,  that's  long  past: 

I  do  what  many  dream  of  all  their  lives, 

— Dream?  strive  to  do,  and  agonize  to  do, 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  161 

And  fail  in  doing.     I  could  count  twenty  such 

On  twice  your  fingers,  and  not  leave  this  town, 

Who  strive-y-you  don't  know  how  the  others  strive 

To  paint  a  little  thing  like  that  you  smeared 

Carelessly  passing  with  your  robes  afloat, — 

Yet  do  much  less,  so  much  less,  Someone  says, 

(I  know  his  name,  no  matter) — so  much  less! 

Well,  less  is  more,  Lucrezia:  I  am  judged. 

There  burns  a  truer  light  of  God  in  them, 

In  their  vexed  beating  stuffed  and  stopped-up  brain, 

Heart,  or  what'er  else,  than  goes  on  to  prompt 

This  low-pulsed  forthright  craftsman's  hand  of  mine, 

Their  works  drop  groundward,  but  themselves,  I  know, 

Reach  many  a  time  a  heaven  that's  shut  to  me, 

Enter  and  take  their  place  there  sure  enough, 

Though  they  come  back  and  cannot  tell  the  world, 

My  works  are  nearer  heaven,  but  I  sit  here. 

The  sudden  blood  of  these  men!  at  a  word — 

Praise  them,  it  boils,  or  blame  them,  it  boils  too. 

I,  painting  from  myself  and  to  myself, 

Know  what  I  do,  am  unmoved  by  men's  blame 

Or  their  praise  either.     Somebody  remarks 

Morello's  outline  there  is  wrongly  traced, 

His  hue  mistaken;  what  of  that?    or  else, 

Rightly  traced  and  well  ordered;  what  of  that? 

Speak  as  they  please,  what  does  the  mountain  care? 

Ah,  but  a  man's  reach  should  exceed  his  grasp, 

Or  what's  a  heaven  for?    All  is  silver-gray 

Placid  and  perfect  with  my  art:  the  worse! 

I  know  both  what  I  want  and  what  might  gain, 

And  yet  how  profitless  to  know,  to  sigh 

"Had  I  been  two,  another  and  myself, 

Our  head  would  have  o'erlooked  the  world!"  No  doubt. 

Yonder's  a  work  now,  of  that  famous  youth 

The  Urbinate,1  who  died  five  years  ago. 

('T  is  copied,  George  Vasari2  sent  it  me.) 

Well,  I  can  fancy  how  he  did  it  all, 

Pouring  his  soul,  with  kings  and  popes  to  see, 

Reaching,  that  heaven  might  so  replenish  him, 

1  The  great  artist  Raphael  (1483-1520),  who  wag  born  at  Urbino. 
1  Author  of  Liveaofthe  Most  Excellent  Italian  Painters  (1511-1571). 


162  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Above  and  through  his  art — for  it  gives  way; 

That  arm  is  wrongly  put — and  there  again — 

A  fault  to  pardon  in  the  drawing's  lines, 

Its  body,  so  to  speak :  its  soul  is  right, 

He  means  right — that,  a  child  may  understand. 

Still,  what  an  arm!  and  I  could  alter  it: 

But  all  the  play,  the  insight  and  the  stretch — 

Out  of  me,  out  of  me!     And  wherefore  out? 

Had  you  enjoined  them  on  me,  given  me  soul, 

We  might  have  risen  to  Rafael,  I  and  you! 

Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I  asked,  I  think — 

More  than  I  merit,  yes,  by  many  times. 

But  had  you — oh,  with  the  same  perfect  brow, 

And  perfect  eyes,  and  more  than  perfect  mouth, 

And  the  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as  a  bird 

The  fowler's  pipe,  and  follows  to  the  snare — 

Had  you,  with  these  the  same,  but  brought  a  mind! 

Some  women  do  so.     Had  the  mouth  there  urged 

"God  and  the  glory!  never  care  for  gain. 

The  present  by  the  future,  what  is  that? 

Live  for  fame,  side  by  side  with  Agnolo!1 

Rafael  is  waiting:  up  to  God,  all  three!" 

I  might  have  done  it  for  you.     So  it  seems: 

Perhaps  not.     All  is  as  God  overrules. 

Beside,  incentives  come  from  the  soul's  self; 

The  rest  avail  not.     Why  do  I  need  you? 

\Vhat  wife  had  Rafael,  or  has  Agnolo? 

In  this  world,  who  can  do  a  thing,  will  not; 

And  who  would  do  it,  cannot,  I  perceive: 

Yet  the  will's  somewhat — somewhat,  too,  the  power — 

And  thus  we  half-men  struggle.     At  the  end, 

God,  I  conclude,  compensates,  punishes. 

'T  is  safer  for  me,  if  the  award  be  strict, 

That  I  am  something  underrated  here. 

Poor  this  long  while,  despised,  to  speak  the  truth. 

I  dared  not,  do  you  know,  leave  home  all  day, 

For  fear  of  chancing  on  the  Paris  lords. 

The  best  is  when  they  pass  and  look  aside; 

But  they  speak  sometimes:  I  must  bear  it  all. 

1  Michelangelo  (1475-1564),  Buonarrsti,  painter,  sculptor,  and  architect. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  163 

Well  may  they  speak!     That  Francis,1  that  first  time, 

And  that  long  festal  year  at  Fontainebleau ! 

I  surely  then  could  sometimes  leave  the  ground, 

Put  on  the  glory,  Rafael's  daily  wear, 

In  that  humane  great  monarch's  golden  look, — 

One  finger  in  his  beard  or  twisted  curl 

Over  his  mouth's  good  mark  that  made  the  smile, 

One  arm  about  my  shoulder,  round  my  neck, 

The  jingle  of  his  gold  chain  in  my  ear, 

I  painting  proudly  with  his  breath  on  me 

All  his  court  round  him,  seeing  with  his  eyes, 

Such  frank  French  eyes,  and  such  a  fire  of  souls 

Profuse,  my  hand  kept  plying  by  those  hearts, — 

And,  best  of  all,  this,  this  face  beyond, 

This  in  the  background,  waiting  on  my  work, 

To  crown  the  issue  with  a  last  reward! 

A  good  time,  was  it  not,  my  kingly  days? 

And  had  you  not  grown  restless   .    .    .  but  I  know — 

'T  is  done  and  past;  't  was  right,  my  instinct  said; 

Too  live  the  life  grew,  golden  and  not  gray, 

And  I'm  the  weak-eyed  bat  no  sun  should  tempt 

Out  of  the  grange  whose  four  walls  make  his  world. 

How  could  it  end  in  any  other  way? 

You  called  me,  and  I  came  home  to  your  heart. 

The  triumph  was — to  reach  and  stay  there;  since 

I  reached  it  ere  the  triumph,  what  is  lost? 

Let  my  hands  frame  your  face  in  your  hairs'  gold, 

You  beautiful  Lucrezia  that  are  mine! 

"Rafael  did  this,  Andrea  painted  that; 

The  Roman's  is  the  better  when  you  pray, 

But  still  the  other's  Virgin  was  his  wife" — 

Men  will  excuse  me.     I  am  glad  to  judge 

Both  pictures  in  your  presence;  clearer  grows 

My  better  fortune,  I  resolve  to  think. 

For,  do  you  know,  Lucrezia,  as  God  lives, 

Said  one  day  Agnolo,  his  very  self, 

To  Rafael   ...   I  have  known  it  all  these  years  .  .  . 

(When  the  young  man  was  flaming  out  his  thoughts 

Upon  a  palace-wall  for  Rome  to  see, 

1  King  Francis  I  (1494-1547),  at  one  time  a  patron  of  Andrea  del 
Sarto. 


164  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Too  lifted  up  in  heart  because  of  it) 

"Friend,  there's  a  certain  sorry  little  scrub 

Goes  up  and  down  our  Florence,  none  cares  how, 

Who,  were  he  set  to  plan  and  execute 

As  you  are,  pricked  on  by  your  popes  and  kings, 

Would  bring  the  sweat  into  that  brow  of  yours!" 

To  Rafael's ! — And  indeed  the  arm  is  wrong. 

I  hardly  dare   .    .    .  yet,  only  you  to  see, 

Give  the  chalk  here — quick,  thus  the  line  should  go! 

Ay,  but  the  soul!  he's  Rafael!  rub  it  out! 

Still,  all  I  care  for,  if  he  spoke  the  truth, 

(What  he?  why,  who  but  Michel  Agnolo? 

Do  you  forget  already  words  like  those?) 

If  really  there  was  such  a  chance,  so  lost, — 

Is,  whether  you're — not  graceful — but  more  pleased. 

Well,  let  me  think  so.     And  you  smile  indeed! 

This  hour  has  been  an  hour!     Another  smile? 

If  you  would  sit  thus  by  me  every  night 

I  should  work  better,  do  you  comprehend? 

I  mean  that  I  should  earn  more,  give  you  more. 

See,  it  is  settled  dusk  now;  there's  a  star; 

Morello's  gone,  the  watch-lights  show  the  wall, 

The  cue-owls  speak  the  name  we  call  them  by. 

Come  from  the  window,  love, — come  in,  at  last, 

Inside  the  melancholy  little  house 

We  built  to  be  so  gay  with.    God  is  just. 

King  Francis  may  forgive  me:  oft  at  nights 

When  I  look  up  from  painting,  eyes  tired  out, 

The  walls  become  illumined,  brick  from  brick 

Distinct,  instead  of  mortar,  fierce  bright  gold, 

That  gold  of  his  I  did  cement  them  with! 

Let  us  but  love  each  other.     Must  you  go? 

That  Cousin  here  again?  he  waits  outside? 

Must  see  you — you,  and  not  with  me?    Those  loans? 

More  gaming  debts  to  pay?  you  smiled  for  that? 

Well,  let  smiles  buy  me!  have  you  more  to  spend? 

While  hand  and  eye  and  something  of  a  heart 

Are  left  me,  work's  my  ware,  and  what's  it  worth? 

I'll  pay  my  fancy.     Only  let  me  sit 

The  gray  remainder  of  the  evening  out, 

Idle,  you  call  it,  and  muse  perfectly 

How  I  could  paint,  were  I  but  back  in  France, 

One  picture,  just  one  more — the  Virgin's  face, 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  165 

Not  yours  this  time!    I  want  you  at  my  side 

To  hear  them — that  is,  Michel  Agnolo — 

Judge  all  I  do  and  tell  you  of  its  worth. 

Will  you?    To-morrow,  satisfy  your  friend. 

I  take  the  subjects  for  his  corridor, 

Finish  the  portrait  out  of  hand — there,  there, 

And  throw  him  in  another  thing  or  two 

If  he  demurs;  the  whole  should  prove  enough 

To  pay  for  this  same  Cousin's  freak.     Beside, 

What's  better  and  what's  all  I  care  about, 

Get  you  the  thirteen  scudi  for  the  ruff! 

Love,  does  that  please  you?     Ah,  but  what  does  he, 

The  Cousin!  what  does  he  to  please  you  more? 

I  am  grown  peaceful  as  old  age  to-night. 
I  regret  little,  I  would  change  still  less. 
Since  there  my  past  life  lies,  why  alter  it? 
The  very  wrong  to  Francis! — it  is  true 
I  took  his  coin,  was  tempted  and  complied, 
And  built  this  house  and  sinned,  and  all  is  said. 
My  father  and  my  mother  died  of  want. 
Well,  had  I  riches  of  my  own?  you  see 
How  one  gets  rich!     Let  each  one  bear  his  lot. 
They  were  born  poor,  lived  poor,  and  poor  they  died: 
And  I  have  labored  somewhat  in  my  time 
And  not  been  paid  profusely.     Some  good  son 
Paint  my  two  hundred  pictures — let  him  try! 
No  doubt,  there's  something  strikes  a  balance.     Yes, 
You  loved  me  quite  enough,  it  seems,  to-night. 
This  must  suffice  me  here.     What  would  one  have? 
In  heaven,  perhaps,  new  chances,  one  more  chance — 
Four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusalem,1 
Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's  reed, 
For  Leonard,2  Rafael,  Agnolo  and  me 
To  cover — the  three  first  without  a  wife, 
While  I  have  mine!     So — still  they  overcome 
Because  there's  still  Lucrezia, — as  I  choose. 

Again  the  Cousin's  whistle!     Go,  my  love. 

(1855.) 

1  Revelation  21:10-17. 

2  Leonardo     da    Vinci     (1452-1519),     Italian     painter.     Raphael, 
Michelangelo,    and    Leonardo  are  considered  the  greatest  of  Italian 
Renaissance  painters. 


166  ROBERT  BROWNING 


ROME,    15 

Vanity,  saith  the  preacher,  vanity! 

Draw  round  my  bed:  is  Anselm  keeping  back? 

Nephews — sons  mine  .  .  .  ah  God,  I  know  not!     Well — 

She,  men  would  have  to  be  your  mother  once, 

Old  Gandolf  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was! 

What's  done  is  done,  and  she  is  dead  beside, 

Dead  long  ago,  and  I  am  Bishop  since, 

And  as  she  died  so  must  we  die  ourselves, 

And  thence  ye  may  perceive  the  world's  a  dream. 

Life,  how  and  what  is  it?    As  here  I  lie 

In  this  state-chamber,  dying  by  degrees, 

Hours  and  long  hours  in  the  dead  night,  I  ask 

"Do  I  live,  am  I  dead?"     Peace,  peace  seems  all. 

Saint  Praxed's  ever  was  the  church  for  peace; 

And  so,  about  this  tomb  of  mine.     I  fought 

With  tooth  and  nail  to  save  my  niche,  ye  know: 

—Old  Gandolf  cozened  me,  despite  my  care; 

Shrewd  was  that  snatch  from  out  the  Corner  South 

He  graced  his  carrion  with,  God  curse  the  same! 

Yet  still  my  niche  is  not  so  cramped  but  thence 

One  sees  the  pulpit  o'  the  epistle-side, 

And  somewhat  of  the  choir,  those  silent  seats, 

And  up  into  the  aery  dome  where  live 

The  angels,  and  a  sunbeam's  sure  to  lurk: 

And  I  shall  fill  my  slab  of  basalt  there, 

And  'neath  my  tabernacle  take  my  rest, 

With  those  nine  columns  round  me,  two  and  two, 

The  odd  one  at  my  feet  where  Anselm  stands: 

Peach-blossom  marble  all,  the  rare,  the  ripe 

As  fresh-poured  red  wine  of  a  mighty  pulse. 

— Old  Gandolf  with  his  paltry  onion-stone, 

Put  me  where  I  may  look  at  him!     True  peach, 

Rosy  and  flawless:  how  I  earned  the  prize! 

Draw  close:  that  conflagration  of  my  church 

— \Vhat  then?     So  much  was  saved  if  aught  were  missed! 

My  sons,  ye  would  not  be  my  death?     Go  dig 

The  white-grape  vineyard  where  the  oil-press  stood, 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  167 

Drop  water  gently  till  the  surface  sink, 

And  if  ye  find  .  .  .  Ah,  God  I  know  not,  I!  ... 

Bedded  in  store  of  rotten  fig-leaves  soft, 

And  corded  up  in  a  tight  olive-frail, 

Some  lump,  ah  God,  of  lapis  lazuli, 

Big  as  a  Jew's  head  cut  off  at  the  nape, 

Blue  as  a  vein  o'er  the  Madonna's  breast  .  .  . 

Sons,  all  have  I  bequeathed  you,  villas,  all, 

That  brave  Frascati  villa  with  its  bath, 

So,  let  the  blue  lump  poise  between  my  knees, 

Like  God  the  Father's  globe  on  both  his  hands 

Ye  worship  in  the  Jesu  Church  so  gay, 

For  Gandolf  shall  not  choose  but  see  and  burst! 

Swift  as  a  weaver's  shuttle  fleet  our  years : 

Man  goeth  to  the  grave,  and  where  is  he? 

Did  I  say  basalt  for  my  slab,  sons?    Black — 

'Twas  ever  antique-black  I  meant!    How  else 

Shall  ye  contrast  my  frieze  to  come  beneath? 

The  bas-relief  in  bronze  ye  promised  me, 

Those  Pans  and  Nymphs  ye  wot  of,  and  perchance 

Some  tripod,  thyrsus,  with  a  vase  or  so, 

The  Saviour  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 

Saint  Praxed  in  a  glory,  and  one  Pan 

Ready  to  twitch  the  Nymph's  last  garment  off, 

And  Moses  with  the  tables  .  .  .  but  I  know 

Ye  mark  me  not !     What  do  they  whisper  thee, 

Child  of  my  bowels,  Anselm?    Ah,  ye  hope 

To  revel  down  my  villas  while  I  gasp 

Bricked  o'er  with  beggar's  mouldy  travertine 

Which  Gandolf  from  his  tomb-top  chuckles  at! 

Nay,  boys,  ye  love  me — all  of  jasper,  then! 

'Tis  jasper  ye  stand  pledged  to,  lest  I  grieve 

My  bath  must  needs  be  left  behind,  alas! 

One  block,  pure  green  as  a  pistachio-nut, 

There's  plenty  jasper  somewhere  in  the  world — 

And  have  I  not  Saint  Praxed's  ear  to  pray 

Horses  for  ye,  and  brown  Greek  manuscripts, 

And  mistresses  with  great  smooth  marbly  limbs? 

— That's  if  ye  carve  my  epitaph  aright, 

Choice  Latin,  picked  phrase,  Tully's  every  word, 

No  gaudy  ware  like  Gandolf's  second  line — 

Tully,  my  masters?    Ulpian2  serves  his  need! 

1  Marcus  Tullius  Cicero  (106-43  B.  C.). 

1  Roman  legal  writer  of  the  third  century  A.  D. 


168  ROBERT  BROWNING 

And  then  how  I  shall  lie  through  centuries, 

And  hear  the  blessed  mutter  of  the  mass, 

And  see  God  made  and  eaten  all  day  long, 

And  feel  the  steady  candle-flame,  and  taste 

Good  strong  thick  stupefying  incense-smoke! 

For  as  I  lie  here,  hours  of  the  dead  night, 

Dying  in  state  and  by  such  slow  degrees, 

I  fold  my  arms  as  if  they  clasped  a  crook, 

And  stretch  my  feet  forth  straight  as  stone  can  point, 

Arid  let  the  bedclothes,  for  a  mortcloth,  drop 

Into  great  laps  and  folds  of  sculptor's- work: 

And  as  yon  tapers  dwindle,  and  strange  thoughts 

Grow,  with  a  certain  humming  in  my  ears, 

About  the  life  before  I  lived  this  life, 

And  this  life  too,  popes,  cardinals  and  priests, 

Saint  Praxed  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 

Your  tall  pale  mother  with  her  talking  eyes, 

And  new-found  agate  urns  as  fresh  as  day, 

And  marble's  language,  Latin  pure,  discreet, 

— Aha,  ELUCESCEBAT1  quoth  our  friend? 

No  Tully,  said  I,  Ulpian  at  the  best! 

Evil  and  brief  hath  been  my  pilgrimage. 

All  lapis,  all,  sons!     Else  I  give  the  Pope 

My  villas!     Will  ye  ever  eat  my  heart? 

Ever  your  eyes  were  as  a  lizard's  quick, 

They  glitter  like  your  mother's  for  my  soul, 

Or  ye  would  heighten  my  impoverished  frieze, 

Piece  out  its  starved  design,  and  fill  my  vase 

With  grapes,  and  add  a  vizor  and  a  Term,2 

And  to  the  tripod  ye  would  tie  a  lynx 

That  in  his  struggle  throws  the  thyrsus  down, 

To  comfort  me  on  my  entablature 

Whereon  I  am  to  lie  till  I  must  ask 

"Do  I  live,  am  I  dead?"     There,  leave  me,  there! 

For  ye  have  stabbed  me  with  ingratitude 

To  death — ye  wish  it — God,  ye  wish  it!     Stone — 

Gritstone,  a-crumble!     Clammy  squares  which  sweat 

1  Ho  was  illustrious. 

2  Short  for  Terminus,  a  Roman  god  of  boundaries. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  169 

As  if  the  corpse  they  keep  were  oozing  through — 

And  no  more  lapis  to  delight  the  world! 

Well,  go!    I  bless  ye.    Fewer  tapers  there, 

But  in  a  row:  and,  going,  turn  your  backs 

— Ay,  like  departing  altar-ministrants, 

And  leave  me  in  my  church,  the  church  for  peace, 

That  I  may  watch  at  leisure  if  he  leers — 

Old  Gandolf — at  me,  from  his  onion-stone, 

As  still  he  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was! 

(1845.) 
CLEON 

"AS   CERTAIN   ALSO    OF   YOUR    OWN   POETS   HAVE    SAID" — l 

Cleon  the  poet  (from  the  sprinkled  isles, 

Lily  on  lily,  that  o'erlace  the  sea, 

And  laugh   their   pride  when  the  light   wave  lisps 

"Greece")— 
To  Protus  in  his  Tyranny:  much  health! 

They  give  thy  letter  to  me,  even  now: 
I  read  and  seem  as  if  I  heard  thee  speak. 
The  master  of  thy  galley  still  unlades 
Gift  after  gift;  they  block  my  court  at  last 
And  pile  themselves  along  its  portico 
Royal  with  sunset,  like  a  thought  of  thee: 
And  one  white  she-slave  from  the  group  dispersed 
Of  black  and  white  slaves  (like  the  chequer-work 
Pavement,  at  once  my  nation's  work  and  gift, 
Now  covered  with  this  settle-down  of  doves), 
One  lyric  woman,  in  her  crocus  vest 
Woven  of  sea- wools,  with  her  two  white  hands 
Commends  to  me  the  strainer  and  the  cup 
Thy  lip  hath  bettered  ere  it  blesses  mine. 

Well-counselled,  king,  in  thy  munificence! 
For  so  shall  men  remark,  in  such  an  act 
Of  love  for  him  whose  song  gives  life  its  joy, 

1  The  quotation  which  completes  the  sentence  is  "For  we  are  also 
his  offspring."     (Acts  17:28). 


170  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Thy  recognition  of  the  use  of  life; 
Nor  call  thy  spirit  barely  adequate 
To  help  on  life  in  straight  ways,  broad  enough 
For  vulgar  souls,  by  ruling  and  the  rest. 
Thou,  in  the  daily  building  of  thy  tower, — 
Whether  in  fierce  and  sudden  spasms  of  toil, 
Or  through  dim  lulls  of  unapparent  growth, 
Or  when  the  general  work  'mid  good  acclaim 
Climbed  with  the  eye  to  cheer  the  architect, — 
Didst  ne'er  engage  in  work  for  mere  work's  sake — 
Hadst  ever  in  thy  heart  the  luring  hope 
Of  some  eventual  rest  a-top  of  it, 
Whence,  all  the  tumult  of  the  building  hushed, 
Thou  first  of  men  mightst  look  out  to  the  East : 
The  vulgar  saw  thy  tower,  thou  sawest  the  sun. 
For  this,  I  promise  on  thy  festival 
To  pour  libation,  looking  o'er  the  sea, 
Making  this  slave  narrate  thy  fortunes,  speak 
Thy  great  words,  and  describe  thy  royal  face — 
Wishing  thee  wholly  where  Zeus  lives  the  most, 
Within  the  eventual  element  of  calm 

Thy  letter's  first  requirement  meets  me  here. 
It  is  as  thou  hast  heard:  in  one  short  life 
I,  Cleon,  have  effected  all  those  things 
Thou  wonderingly  dost  enumerate. 
That  epos  on  thy  hundred  plates  of  gold 
Is  mine, — and  also  mine  the  little  chant, 
So  sure  to  rise  from  every  fishing-bark 
When,  lights  at  prow,  the  seamen  haul  their  net. 
The  image  of  the  sun-god  on  the  phare, 
Men  turn  from  the  sun's  self  to  see,  is  mine; 
The  Pcecile.  o'er-storied  its  whole  length, 
As  thou  didst  hear,  with  painting,  is  mine  too. 
I  know  the  true  proportions  of  a  man 
And  woman  also,  not  observed  before; 
And  I  have  written  three  books  on  the  soul, 
Proving  absurd  all  written  hitherto, 
And  putting  us  to  ignorance  again. 
For  music. — why,  I  have  combined  the  moods, 
Inventing  one.     In  brief,  all  arts  are  mine; 
Thus  much  the  p'  opl'  know  and  recognize, 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  171 

Throughout  our  seventeen  islands.     Marvel  not. 

We  of  these  latter  days,  with  greater  mind 

Than  our  forerunners,  since  more  composite, 

Look  not  so  great,  beside  their  simple  way, 

To  a  judge  who  only  sees  one  way  at  once, 

One  mind-point  and  no  other  at  a  time, — 

Compares  the  small  part  of  a  man  of  us 

With  some  whole  man  of  the  heroic  age, 

Great  in  his  way — not  ours,  nor  meant  for  ours. 

And  ours  is  greater,  had  we  skill  to  know: 

For,  what  we  call  this  life  of  men  on  earth, 

This  sequence  of  the  soul's  achievements  here 

Being,  as  I  find  much  reason  to  conceive, 

Intended  to  be  viewed  eventually 

As  a  great  whole,  not  analyzed  to  parts, 

But  each  part  having  reference  to  all, — 

How  shall  a  certain  part,  pronounced  complete, 

Endure  effacement  by  another  part? 

Was  the  thing  done? — then,  what's  to  do  again? 

See,  in  the  chequered  pavement  opposite, 

Suppose  the  artist  made  a  perfect  rhornb, 

And  next  a  lozenge,  then  a  trapezoid — 

He  did  not  overlay  them,  superimpose 

The  new  upon  the  old  and  blot  it  out, 

But  laid  them  on  a  level  in  his  work, 

Making  at  last  a  picture;  there  it  lies. 

So,  first  the  perfect  separate  forms  were  made, 

The  portions  of  mankind;  and  after,  so, 

Occurred  the  combination  of  the  same. 

For  where  had  been  a  progress,  otherwise? 

Mankind,  made  up  of  all  the  single  men, — 

In  such  a  synthesis  the  labor  ends. 

Now  mark  me!  those  divine  men  of  old  time 

Have  reached,  thou  sayest  well,  each  at  one  point 

The  outside  verge  that  rounds  our  faculty; 

And  where  they  reached,  who  can  do  more  than  reach? 

It  takes  but  little  water  just  to  touch 

At  some  one  point  the  inside  of  a  sphere, 

And,  as  we  turn  the  sphere,  touch  all  the  rest 

In  due  succession:  but  the  finer  air 

Which  not  so  palpably  nor  obviously, 

Though  no  less  universally,  can  touch 


172  ROBERT  BROWNING 

The  whole  circumference  of  that  emptied  sphere, 

Fills  it  more  fully  than  the  water  did; 

Holds  thrice  the  weight  of  water  in  itself 

Resolved  into  a  subtler  element. 

And  yet  the  vulgar  call  the  sphere  first  full 

Up  to  the  visible  height — and  after,  void; 

Not  knowing  air's  more  hidden  properties. 

And  thus  our  soul,  misknown,  cries  out  to  Zeus 

To  vindicate  his  purpose  in  our  life : 

Why  stay  we  on  the  earth  unless  to  grow? 

Long  since,  I  imaged,  wrote  the  fiction  out, 

That  he  or  other  god  descended  here 

And,  once  for  all,  showed  simultaneously 

What,  in  its  nature,  never  can  be  shown, 

Piecemeal  or  in  succession; — showed,  I  say, 

The  worth  both  absolute  and  relative 

Of  all  his  children  from  the  birth  of  time, 

His  instruments  for  all  appointed  work. 

I  now  go  on  to  image, — might  we  hear 

The  judgment  which  should  give  the  due  to  each, 

Show  where  the  labor  lay  and  where  the  ease, 

And  prove  Zeus'  self,  the  latent  everywhere! 

This  is  a  dream: — but  no  dream,  let  us  hope, 

That  years  and  days,  the  summers  and  the  springs, 

Follow  each  other  with  unwaning  powers. 

The  grapes  which  dye  thy  wine  are  richer  far, 

Through  culture,  than  the  wild  wealth  of  the  rock; 

The  suave  plum  than  the  savage-tasted  drupe; 

The  pastured  honey-bee  drops  choicer  sweet; 

The  flowers  turn  double,  and  the  leaves  turn  flowers; 

That  young  and  tender  crescent-moon,  thy  slave, 

Sleeping  above  her  robe  as  buoyed  by  clouds, 

Refines  upon  the  women  of  my  youth. 

What,  and  the  soul  alone  deteriorates? 

I  have  not  chanted  verse  like  Homer,  no — 

Nor  swept  string  like  Terpander,1  no — nor  carved 

And  painted  men  like  Phidias2  and  his  friend: 

1  Lesbian  musician  (about  650  B.  C.). 

5  Athenian  sculptor  and  architect,  born  about  500  B.  C.  The 
friend  referred  to  was  Pericles,  ruler  of  Athens  from  444-429  B.  C., 
a  period  of  the  highest  culture. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  173 

I  am  not  great  as  they  are,  point  by  point. 

But  I  have  entered  into  sympathy 

With  these  four,  running  these  into  one  soul, 

Who,  separate,  ignored  each  other's  art. 

Say,  is  it  nothing  that  I  know  them  all? 

The  wild  flower  was  the  larger;  I  have  dashed 

Rose-blood  upon  its  petals,  pricked  its  cup's 

Honey  with  wine,  and  driven  its  seed  to  fruit, 

And  show  a  better  flower  if  not  so  large: 

I  stand  myself.     Refer  this  to  the  gods 

Whose  gift  alone  it  is!  which,  shall  I  dare 

(All  pride  apart)  upon  the  absurd  pretext 

That  such  a  gift  by  chance  lay  in  my  hand, 

Discourse  of  lightly  or  depreciate? 

It  might  have  fallen  to  another's  hand:  what  then? 

I  pass  too  surely:  let  at  least  truth  stay  I 

And  next,  of  what  thou  folio  west  on  to  ask. 
This  being  with  me  as  I  declare,  0  king, 
My  works,  in  all  these  varicolored  kinds, 
So  done  by  me,  accepted  so  by  men — 
Thou  askest,  if  (my  soul  thus  in  men's  hearts) 
I  must  not  be  accounted  to  attain 
The  very  crown  and  proper  end  of  life? 
Inquiring  thence  how,  now  life  closeth  up, 
I  face  death  with  success  in  my  right  hand: 
Whether  I  fear  death  less  than  dost  thyself 
The  fortunate  of  men?     "For"  (writest  thou) 
"Thou  leavest  much  behind,  while  I  leave  naught. 
Thy  life  stays  in  the  poems  men  shall  sing, 
The  pictures  men  shall  study;  while  my  life, 
Complete  and  whole  now  in  its  power  and  joy, 
Dies  altogether  with  my  brain  and  arm, 
Is  lost  indeed;  since,  what  survives  myself? 
The  brazen  statue  to  o'erlook  my  grave, 
Set  on  the  promontory  which  I  named. 
And  that — some  supple  courtier  of  my  heir 
Shall  use  its  robed  and  sceptred  arm,  perhaps, 
To  fix  the  rope  to,  which  best  drags  it  down. 
I  go  then:  triumph  thou,  who  dost  not  go!" 


174  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Nay,  thou  art  worthy  of  hearing  my  whole  mind. 
Is  this  apparent,  when  thou  turn'st  to  muse 
Upon  the  scheme  of  earth  and  man  in  chief, 
That  admiration  grows  as  knowledge  grows? 
That  imperfection  means  perfection  hid, 
Reserved  in  part,  to  grace  the  after-time? 
If,  in  the  morning  of  philosophy, 
Ere  aught  had  been  recorded,  nay,  perceived, 
Thou,  with  the  light  now  in  thee,  couldst  have  looked 
On  all  earth's  tenantry,  from  worm  to  bird, 
Ere  man,  her  last,  appeared  upon  the  stage — 
Thou  wouldst  have  seen  them  perfect,  and  deduced 
The  perfectness  of  others  yet  unseen. 
Conceding  which, — had  Zeus  then  questioned  thee, 
"Shall  I  go  on  a  step,  improve  on  this, 
Do  more  for  visible  creatures  than  is  done?" 
Thou  wouldst  have  answered,  "Ay,  by  making  each 
Grow  conscious  in  himself — by  that  alone. 
All's  perfect  else:  the  shell  sucks  fast  the  rock, 
The  fish  strikes  through  the  sea,  the  snake  both  swims 
And  slides,  forth  range  the  beasts,  the  birds  take  flight, 
Till  life's  mechanics  can  no  further  go — 
And  all  this  joy  in  natural  life  is  put 
Like  fire  from  off  thy  finger  into  each, 
So  exquisitely  perfect  is  the  same. 
But  't  is  pure  fire,  and  they  mere  matter  are; 
It  has  them,  not  they  it:  and  so  I  choose 
For  man,  thy  last  premeditated  work 
(If  I  might  add  a  glory  to  the  scheme), 
That  a  third  thing  should  stand  apart  from  both, 
A  quality  arise  within  his  soul, 
Which,  intro-active,  made  to  supervise 
And  feel  the  force  it  has,  may  view  itself, 
And  so  be  happy."     Man  might  live  at  first 
The  animal  life :  but  is  there  nothing  more? 
In  due  time,  let  him  critically  learn 
How  he  lives;  and,  the  more  he  gets  to  know 
Of  his  own  life's  adaptabilities, 
The  more  joy-giving  will  his  life  become. 
Thus  man,  who  hath  this  quality,  is  best. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  175 

But  thou,  king,  hadst  more  reasonably  said: 
"Let  progress  end  at  once, — man  make  no  step 
Beyond  the  natural  man,  the  better  beast, 
Using  his  senses,  not  the  sense  of  sense." 
In  man  there's  failure,  only  since  he  left 
The  lower  and  inconscious  forms  of  life. 
We  called  it  an  advance,  the  rendering  plain 
Man's  spirit  might  grow  conscious  of  man's  life, 
And,  by  new  lore  so  added  to  the  old, 
Take  each  step  higher  over  the  brute's  head. 
This  grew  the  only  life,  the  pleasure-house, 
Watch-tower  and  treasure-fortress  of  the  soul, 
Which  whole  surrounding  flats  of  natural  life 
Seemed  only  fit  to  yield  subsistence  to; 
A  tower  that  crowns  a  country.     But  alas, 
The  soul  now  climbs  it  just  to  perish  there! 
For  thence  we  have  discovered  ('t  is  no  dream — 
We  know  this,  which  we  had  not  else  perceived) 
That  there's  a  world  of  capability 
For  joy,  spread  round  about  us,  meant  for  us, 
Inviting  us;  and  still  the  soul  craves  all, 
And  still  the  flesh  replies,  "Take  no  jot  more 
Than  ere  thou  clombst  the  tower  to  look  abroad! 
Nay,  so  much  less  as  that  fatigue  has  brought 
Deduction  to  it."     We  struggle,  fain  to  enlarge 
Our  bounded  physical  recipiency, 
Increase  our  power,  supply  fresh  oil  to  life, 
Repair  the  waste  of  age  and  sickness:  no, 
It  skills  not!  life's  inadequate  to  joy, 
As  the  soul  sees  joy,  tempting  life  to  take. 
They  praise  a  fountain  in  my  garden  here 
Wherein  a  Xaiad  sends  the  water-bow 
Thin  from  her  tube;  she  smiles  to  see  it  rise. 
What  if  I  told  her,  it  is  just  a  thread 
From  that  great  river  which  the  hills  shut  up, 
And  mock  her  with  my  leave  to  take  the  same? 
The  artificer  has  given  her  one  small  tube 
Past  power  to  widen  or  exchange — what  boots 
To  know  she  might  spout  oceans  if  she  could? 
She  cannot  lift  beyond  her  first  thin  thread: 


176  ROBERT  BROWNING 

And  so  a  man  can  use  but  a  man's  joy 
While  he  sees  God's.    Is  it  for  Zeus  to  boast, 
"See,  man,  how  happy  I  live,  and  despair — 
That  I  may  be  still  happier — for  thy  use!" 
If  this  were  so,  we  could  not  thank  our  lord, 
As  hearts  beat  on  to  doing;  't  is  not  so — 
Malice  it  is  not.     Is  it  carelessness? 
Still,  no.     If  care — where  is  the  sign?    I  ask, 
And  get  no  answer,  and  agree  in  sum, 

0  king,  with  thy  profound  discouragement, 
Who  seest  the  wider  but  to  sigh  the  more. 
Most  progress  is  most  failure:  thou  sayest  well. 

The  last  point  now: — thou  dost  except  a  case — 
Holding  joy  not  impossible  to  one 
With  artist-gifts — to  such  a  man  as  I 
Who  leave  behind  me  living  works  indeed; 
For,  such  a  poem,  such  a  painting  lives. 
What?  dost  thou  verily  trip  upon  a  word, 
Confound  the  accurate  view  of  what  joy  is 
(Caught  somewhat  clearer  by  my  eyes  than  thine) 
With  feeling  joy?  confound  the  knowing  how 
And  showing  how  to  live  (my  faculty) 
With  actually  living? — Otherwise 
Where  is  the  artist's  vantage  o'er  the  king? 
Because  in  my  great  epos  I  display 
How  divers  men  young,  strong,  fair,  wise,  can  act — 
Is  this  as  though  I  acted?  if  I  paint, 
Carve  the  young  Phcebus,  am  I  therefore  young? 
Methinks  I'm  older  that  I  bowed  myself 
The  many  years  of  pain  that  taught  me  art! 
Indeed,  to  know  is  something,  and  to  prove 
How  all  this  beauty  might  be  enjoyed,  is  more: 
But,  knowing  naught,  to  enjoy  is  something  too. 
Yon  rower,  with  the  moulded  muscles  there, 
Lowering  the  sail,  is  nearer  it  than  I. 

1  can  write  love-odes:  thy  fair  slave's  an  ode. 
I  get  to  sing  of  love,  when  grown  too  gray 

For  being  beloved:  she  turns  to  that  young  man, 

The  muscles  all  a-ripple  on  his  back. 

I  know  the  joy  of  kingship:  well,  thou  art  king! 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  177 

"But,"  sayest  thou — (and  I  marvel,  I  repeat, 
To  find  thee  trip  on  such  a  mere  word)  "what 
Thou  writest,  pain  test,  stays;  that  does  not  die: 
Sappho1  survives,  because  we  sing  her  songs, 
And  ^Eschylus,2  because  we  read  his  plays!" 
Why,  if  they  live  still,  let  them  come  and  take 
Tlnr  slave  in  my  despite,  drink  from  thy  cup, 
Speak  in  my  place.     Thou  diest  while  I  survive? 
Say  rather  that  my  fate  is  deadlier  still, 
In  this,  that  every  day  my  sense  of  joy 
Grows  more  acute,  my  soul  (intensified 
By  power  and  insight)  more  enlarged,  more  keen; 
While  every  day  my  hairs  fall  more  and  more, 
My  hand  shakes,  and  the  heavy  years  increase — 
The  horror  quickening  still  from  year  to  year, 
The  consummation  coming  past  escape, 
When  I  shall  know  most,  and  yet  least  enjoy — 
When  all  my  works  wherein  I  prove  my  worth, 
Being  present  still  to  mock  me  in  men's  mouths, 
Alive  still,  in  the  praise  of  such  as  thou, 
I,  I  the  feeling,  thinking,  acting  man, 
The  man  who  loved  his  life  so  over-much, 
Sleep  in  my  urn.     It  is  so  horrible, 
I  dare  at  times  imagine  to  my  need 
Some  future  state  revealed  to  us  by  Zeus, 
Unlimited  in  capability 
For  joy,  as  this  is  in  desire  for  joy, 
— To  seek  which,  the  joy-hunger  forces  us: 
That,  stung  by  strait-ness  of  our  life,  made  strait 
On  purpose  to  make  prized  the  life  at  large — 
Freed  by  the  throbbing  impulse  we  call  death, 
We  burst  there  as  the  worm  into  the  fly, 
"Who,  while  a  worm  still,  wants  his  wings.     But  no! 
Zeus  has  not  yet  revealed  it;  and  alas, 
He  must  have  done  so,  were  it  possible! 

Live  long  and  happy,  and  in  that  thought  die: 
Glad  for  what  was!     Farewell.     And  for  the  rest, 
I  cannot  tell  thy  messenger  aright 

1  Famous  Greek  poetess  (about  600  B.  C.). 

2  First  writer  of  Greek  tragedy  whose  works  have  survived. 


178  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Where  to  deliver  what  he  bears  of  thine 

To  one  called  Paulus;  we  have  heard  his  fame 

Indeed,  if  Christus  be  not  one  with  him — 

I  know  not,  nor  am  troubled  much  to  know. 

Thou  canst  not  think  a  mere  barbarian  Jew, 

As  Paulus  proves  to  be,  one  circumcised, 

Hath  access  to  a  secret  shut  from  us? 

Thou  wrongest  our  philosophy,  O  king, 

In  stooping  to  inquire  of  such  an  one, 

As  if  his  answer  could  impose  at  all! 

He  writeth,  doth  he?  well,  and  he  may  write. 

Oh,  the  Jew  findeth  scholars!  certain  slaves 

Who  touched  on  this  same  isle,  preached  him  and 

Christ; 

And  (as  I  gathered  from  a  bystander) 
Their  doctrine  could  be  held  by  no  sane  man. 

(1855.) 


RUDEL  TO  THE  LADY  OF  TRIPOLI' 

I  know  a  Mount,  the  gracious  Sun  perceives 

First  when  he  visits,  last,  too,  when  he  leaves 

The  world;  and,  vainly  favoured,  it  repays 

The  day-long  glory  of  his  steadfast  gaze 

By  no  change  of  its  large  calm  front  of  snow. 

And  underneath  the  Mount,  a  Flower  I  know, 

He  cannot  have  perceived,  that  changes  ever 

At  his  approach;  and,  in  the  lost  endeavour 

To  live  his  life,  has  parted,  on,e  by  one, 

With  all  a  flower's  true  graces,  for  the  grace 

Of  being  but  a  foolish  mimic  sun, 

With  ray-like  florets  round  a  disk-like  lace. 

Men  nobly  call  by  many  a  name  the  Mount 

As  over  many  a  land  of  theirs  its  large 

Calm  front  of  snow  like  a  triumphal  targe 

Is  reared,  and  still  with  old  names,  fresh  names  vie, 

Each  to  its  proper  praise  and  own  account: 

Men  call  the  Flower  the  Sunflower,  sportively. 

1  Rudel   was   a  twelfth  century  Provengal  troubadour  who  fell  in 
love  with  the  Countess  of  Tripoli,  though  he  had  never  seen  her. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  179 

Oh,  Angel  of  the  East,  one,  one  gold  look 
Across  the  waters  to  this  twilight  nook, 
— The  far  sad  waters,  Angel,  to  this  nook! 

Dear  Pilgrim,  art  thou  for  the  East  indeed? 
Go! — saying  ever  as  thou  dost  proceed, 
That  I,  French  Rudel,  choose  for  my  device 
A  sunflower  outspread  like  a  sacrifice 
Before  its  idol.    See!    These  inexpert 
And  hurried  fingers  could  not  fail  to  hurt 
The  woven  picture;  'tis  a  women's  skill 
Indeed;  but  nothing  baffled  me,  so,  ill 
Or  well,  the  work  is  finished.    Say,  men  feed 
On  songs  I  sing,  and  therefore  bask  the  bees 
On  my  flower's  breast  as  on  a  platform  broad: 
But,  as  the  flower's  concern  is  not  for  these 
But  solely  for  the  sun,  so  men  applaud 
In  vain  this  Rudel,  he  not  looking  here 
But  to  the  East — the  East!    Go,  say  this,  Pilgrim  dear! 

(1842.) 

ONE  WORD  MORE 

TO   E.    B.    B. 


There  they  are,  my  fifty  men  and  women 
Naming  me  the  fifty  poems  finished ! 
Take  them,  Love,  the  book  and  me  together: 
Where  the  heart  lies,  let  the  brain  lie  also. 

ii 

Rafael  made  a  century  of  sonnets, 

Made  and  wrote  them  in  a  certain  volume 

Dinted  with  the  silver-pointed  pencil 

Else  he  only  used  to  draw  Madonnas: 

These,  the  world  might  view — but  one,  the  volume. 

Who  that  one,  you  ask?     Your  heart  instructs  you. 

Did  she  live  and  love  it  all  her  lifetime? 

Did  she  drop,  his  lady  of  the  sonnets, 

Die,  and  let  it  drop  beside  her  pillow 


180  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Where  it  lay  in  place  of  Rafael's  glory, 
Rafael's  cheek  so  duteous  and  so  loving — 
Cheek,  the  world  was  wont  to  hail  a  painter's, 
Rafael's  cheek,  her  love  had  turned  a  poet's? 

in 

You  and  I  would  rather  read  that  volume, 
(Taken  to  his  beating  bosom  by  it) 
Lean  and  list  the  bosom-beats  of  Rafael, 
Would  we  not?  than  wonder  at  Madonnas — 
Her,  San  Sisto  names,  and  Her,  Foligno, 
Her,  that  visits  Florence  in  a  vision, 
Her,  that's  left  with  lilies  in  the  Louvre — 
Seen  by  us  and  all  the  world  in  circle. 

IV 

You  and  I  will  never  read  that  volume. 

Guido  Reni,1  like  his  own  eye's  apple 

Guarded  long  the  treasure-book  and  loved  it. 

Guido  Reni  dying,  all  Bologna 

Cried,  and  the  world  cried  too,  "Ours,  the  treasure!" 

Suddenly,  as  rare  things  will,  it  vanished. 


Dante  once  prepared  to  paint  an  angel:2 
Whom  to  please?     You  whisper  "Beatrice," 
While  he  mused  and  traced  it  and  retraced  it, 
(Peradventure  with  a  pen  corroded 
Still  by  drops  of  that  hot  ink  he  dipped  for, 
When,  his  left  hand  i'  the  hair  o'  the  wicked, 
Back  he  held  the  brow  and  pricked  its  stigma, 
Bit  into  the  live  man's  flesh  for  parchment, 
Loosed  him,  laughed  to  see  the  writing  rankle, 
Let  the  wretch  go  festering  through  Florence)- 
Dante,  who  loved  well  because  he  hated, 
Hated  wickedness  that  hinders  loving, 
Dante  standing,  studying  his  angel, — 
In  there  broke  the  folk  of  his  Inferno. 

^olognese   artist    (1575-1642). 

2  Dante  relates  this  episode  in  his  Uita  Nuova. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  181 

Says  he — "Certain  people  of  importance" 
(Such  he  gave  his  daily  dreadful  line  to) 
"Entered  and  would  seize,  forsooth,  the  poet." 
Says  the  poet — "Then  I  stopped  my  painting." 

VI 

You  and  I  would  rather  see  that  angel, 
Painted  by  the  tenderness  of  Dante, 
Would  we  not? — than  read  a  fresh  Inferno. 

VII 

You  and  I  will  never  see  that  picture. 
While  he  mused  on  love  and  Beatrice, 
While  he  softened  o'er  his  outlined  angel, 
In  they  broke,  those  "people  of  importance": 
We  and  Bice  bear  the  loss  forever. 

VIII 

What  of  Rafael's  sonnets,  Dante's  picture? 

This:  no  artist  lives  and  loves,  that  longs  not 

Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  one  only, 

(Ah,  the  prize!)  to  find  his  love  a  language 

Fit  and  fair  and  simple  and  sufficient — 

Using  nature  that's  an  art  to  others, 

Not,  this  one  time,  art  that's  turned  his  nature. 

Ay,  of  all  the  artists  living,  loving, 

None  but  would  forego  his  proper  dowry, — 

Does  he  paint?  he  fain  would  write  a  poem, — 

Does  he  write?  he  fain  would  paint  a  picture, 

Put  to  proof  art  alien  to  the  artist's, 

Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  one  only, 

So  to  be  the  man  and  leave  the  artist, 

Gain  the  man's  joy,  miss  the  artist's  sorrow. 

IX 

Wherefore?    Heaven's  gift  takes  earth's  abatement! 
He  who  smites  the  rock1  and  spreads  the  water, 

1  Mosca.     See  Exodus  17:  1-7;  Numbers,  20:  2-11. 


182  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Bidding  drink  and  live  a  crowd  beneath  him, 

Even  he,  the  minute  makes  immortal, 

Proves,  perchance,  but  mortal  in  the  minute, 

Desecrates,  belike,  the  deed  in  doing. 

While  he  smites,  how  can  he  but  remember, 

So  he  smote  before,  in  such  a  peril, 

When  they  stood  and  mocked — "Shall  smiting  help 

us?" 

When  they  drank  and  sneered — "A  stroke  is  easy!" 
When  they  wiped  their  mouths  and  went  their  journey, 
Throwing  him  for  thanks — "But  drought  was  pleas- 
ant." 

Thus  old  memories  mar  the  actual  triumph; 
Thus  the  doing  savors  of  disrelish; 
Thus  achievement  lacks  a  gracious  somewhat; 
O'er-importuned  brows  becloud  the  mandate, 
Carelessness  or  consciousness — the  gesture. 
For  he  bears  an  ancient  wrong  about  him, 
Sees  and  knows  again  those  phalanxed  faces, 
Hears,  yet  one  time  more,  the  'customed  prelude — • 
"How  shouldst  thou,  of  all  men,  smite,  and  save  us?" 
Guesses  what  is  like  to  prove  the  sequel — 
"Egypt's  flesh-pots — nay,  the  drought  was  better." 


Oh,  the  crowd  must  have  emphatic  warrant! 
Theirs,  the  Sinai-forehead's1  cloven  brilliance, 
Right-arm's  rod-sweep,  tongue's  imperial  fiat. 
Never  dares  the  man  put  off  the  prophet. 


Did  he  love  one  face  from  out  the  thousands, 
(Where  she  Jethro's  daughter,2  white  and  wifely, 
Were  she  but  the  ^Ethiopian  bondslave,3) 
He  would  envy  yon  dumb  patient  camel, 
Keeping  a  reserve  of  scanty  water 

1  Exodus  19:  9,  16;  34:29-30. 
5  Moses's  wife. 
'Numbers  12:  1 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  183 

Meant  to  save  his  own  life  in  the  desert; 
Ready  in  the  desert  to  deliver 
(Kneeling  down  to  let  his  breast  be  opened) 
Hoard  and  life  together  for  his  mistress. 

XII 

I  shall  never,  in  the  years  remaining, 

Paint  you  pictures,  no,  nor  carve  you  statues, 

Make  you  music  that  should  all-express  me; 

So  it  seems:  I  stand  on  my  attainment. 

This  of  verse  alone,  one  life  allows  me; 

Verse  and  nothing  else  have  I  to  give  you. 

Other  heights  in  other  lives,  God  willing: 

All  the  gifts  from  all  the  heights,  your  own,  Love! 

XIII 

Yet  a  semblance  of  resource  avails  us — 

Shade  so  finely  touched,  love's  sense  must  seize  it. 

Take  these  lines,  look  lovingly  and  nearly, 

Lines  I  write  the  first  time  and  the  last  time. 

He  who  works  in  fresco,  steals  a  hair-brush, 

Curbs  the  liberal  hand,  subservient  proudly, 

Cramps  his  spirit,  crowds  its  all  in  little, 

Makes  a  strange  art  of  an  art  familiar, 

Fills  his  lady's  missal-marge  with  flowerets. 

He  who  blows  through  bronze,may  breathe  through 

silver, 

Fitly  serenade  a  slumbrous  princess. 
He  who  writes,  may  write  for  once  as  I  do. 

XIV 

Love,  you  saw  me  gather  men  and  women, 
Live  or  dead  or  fashioned  by  my  fancy, 
Enter  each  and  all,  and  use  their  service, 
Speak  from  every  mouth, — the  speech,  a  poem. 
Hardly  shall  I  tell  my  joys  and  sorrows, 
Hopes  and  fears,  belief  and  disbelieving: 
I  am  mine  and  yours — the  rest  be  all  men's, 
Karshish,  Cleon,  Norbert,  and  the  fifty. 
Let  me  speak  this  once  in  my  true  person, 


184  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Not  as  Lippo,  Roland,  or  Andrea, 
Though  the  fruit  of  speech  be  just  this  sentence: 
Pray  you,  look  on  these  my  men  and  women, 
Take  and  keep  my  fifty  poems  finished; 
Where  my  heart  lies,  let  my  brain  lie  also! 
Poor  the  speech;  be  how  I  speak,  for  all  things. 

xv 

Not  but  that  you  know  me!     Lo,  the  moon's  self! 
Here  in  London,  yonder  late  in  Florence, 
Still  we  find  her  face,  the  thrice-transfigured. 
Curving  on  a  sky  imbrued  with  color, 
Drifted  over  Fiesole  by  twilight, 
Came  she,  our  new  crescent  of  a  hairs-breadth. 
Full  she  flared  it,  lamping  Samminiato, 
Rounder  'twixt  the  cypresses  and  rounder, 
Perfect  till  the  nightingales  applauded. 
Now,  a  piece  of  her  old  self,  impoverished, 
Hard  to  greet,  she  traverses  the  house-roofs, 
Hurries  with  unhandsome  thrift  of  silver, 
Goes  dispiritedly,  glad  to  finish. 

XVI 

What,  there's  nothing  in  the  moon  noteworthy? 

Nay:  for  if  that  moon  could  love  a  mortal, 

Use,  to  charm  him  (so  to  fit  a  fancy), 

All  her  magic  ('tis  the  old  sweet  mythos), 

She  would  turn  a  new  side  to  her  mortal, 

Side  unseen  of  herdsman,  huntsman,  steersman — 

Blank  to  Zoroaster1  on  his  terrace, 

Blind  to  Galileo2  on  his  turret, 

Dumb  to  Homer,  dumb  to  Keats — him,  even! 

Think,  the  wonder  of  the  moonstruck  mortal — 

When  she  turns  round,  comes  again  in  heaven, 

Opens  out  anew  for  worse  or  better! 

Proves  she  like  some  portent  of  an  iceberg 

Swimming  full  upon  the  ship  it  founders, 

1  One  of  the  greatest  religious  teacher.s  of  the  East. 
J  Famous  Italian  astronomer. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  185 

Hungry  with  huge  teeth  of  splintered  crystals? 

Proves  she  as  the  paved  work  of  a  sapphire 

Seen  by  Moses  when  he  climbed  the  mountain? 

Moses,  Aaron,  Nadab  and  Abihu1 

Climbed  and  saw  the  very  God,  the  Highest, 

Stand  upon  the  paved  work  of  a  sapphire. 

Like  the  bodied  heaven  in  his  clearness 

Shone  the  stone,  the  sapphire  of  that  paved  work, 

When  they  ate  and  drank  and  saw  God  also! 

XVII 

What  were  seen?   None  knows,  none  ever  shall  know. 

Only  this  is  sure — the  sight  were  other, 

Not  the  moon's  same  side,  born  late  in  Florence, 

Dying  now  impoverished  here  in  London. 

God  be  thanked,  the  meanest  of  his  creatures 

Boasts  two  soul-sides,  one  to  face  the  world  with, 

One  to  show  a  woman  when  he  loves  her! 

XVIII 

This  I  say  of  me,  but  think  of  you,  Love! 

This  to  you — yourself  my  moon  of  poets! 

Ah,  but  that's  the  world's  side,  there's  the  wonder, 

Thus  they  see  you,  praise  you,  think  they  know  you! 

There,  in  turn  I  stand  with  them  and  praise  you — 

Out  of  my  own  self,  I  dare  to  phrase  it. 

But  the  best  is  when  I  glide  from  out  them, 

Cross  a  step  or  two  of  dubious  twilight, 

Come  out  on  the  other  side,  the  novel 

Silent  silver  lights  and  darks  undreamed  of, 

Where  I  hush  and  bless  myself  with  silence. 

XIX 

Oh,  their  Rafael  of  the  dear  Madonnas, 
Oh,  their  Dante  of  the  dread  Inferno, 
Wrote  one  song — and  in  my  brain  I  sing  it, 
Drew  one  angel — borne,  see,  on  my  bosom! 

(R.  B.) 
(1855.) 

»  Exodus  24:  1,  10-11. 


186  ROBERT  BROWNING 

ABT  VOGLERi 

(AFTER  HE  HAS  BEEN  EXTEMPORIZING  UPON  THE  MUSICAL 
INSTRUMENT  OF  HIS  INVENTION')2 

Would  that  the  structure  brave,  the  manifold  music  I  build, 

Bidding  my  organ  obey,  calling  its  keys  to  their  work, 
Claiming  each  slave  of  the  sound,  at  a  touch,  as  when  Solo* 

mon3  willed 

Armies  of  angels  that  soar,  legions  of  demons  that  lurk, 
Man,  brute,  reptile,  fly, — alien  of  end  and  of  aim, 

Adverse,    each    from    the    other    heaven-high,    hell-deep 

removed, — 
Should  rush  into  sight  at  once  as  he  named  the  ineffable 

Name, 

And  pile  him  a  palace  straight,  to  pleasure  the  princess  he 
loved ! 

Would  it  might  tarry  like  his,  the  beautiful  building  of  mine, 
This  which  my  keys  in  a  crowd  pressed  and  importuned  to 

raise! 
Ah,  one  and  all.  how  they  helped,  would  dispart  now  and  now 

combine, 
Zealous  to  hasten  the  work,   heighten  their  master  his 

praise! 
And  one  would  bury  his  brow  with  a  blind  plunge  down  to 

hell, 

Burrow  awhile  and  build,  broad  on  the  roots  of  things, 
Then  up  again  swim  into  sight,  having  based  me  mv  palace 

well, 
Founded  it,  fearless  of  flame,  flat  on  the  nether  springs. 

And  another  would  mount  and  march,  like  the  excellent 

minion  he  was, 
Ay,  another  and  yet  another,  one  crowd  but  with  many  a 

crest, 
Raising  my  rampired  walls  of  gold  as  transparent  as  glass, 

Eager  to  do  and  die,  yield  each  his  place  to  the  rest: 
For  higher  still  and  higher  (as  a  runner  tips  with  fire, 
When  a  great  illumination  surprises  a  festal  night — 

1  Bavarian  musician  (1749-1814). 

2  A  compact  portable  organ  called  an  orchestrion. 

3  According  to  legends,  Solomon  owned  a  seal,  engraved  with  "the 
ineffable  name,"  which  gave  him  power  over  good  and  evil  spirits. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  187 

Outlined  round  and  round  Rome's  dome  from  space  to  spire) 
Up,  the  pinnacled  glory  reached,  and  the  pride  of  my  soul 
was  in  sight. 

In  sight?    Not  half!  for  it  seemed,  it  was  certain,  to  match 

man's  birth, 

Nature  in  turn  conceived,  obeying  an  impulse  as  I; 
And  the  emulous  heaven  yearned  down,  made  effort  to  reach 

the  earth, 
As  the  earth  had  done  her  best,  in  my  passion,  to  scale  the 

sky: 
Novel  splendors  burst  forth,  grew  familiar  and  dwelt  with 

mine, 

Not  a  point  nor  peak  but  found  and  fixed  its  wandering  star; 
Meteor-moons,  balls  of  blaze:  and  they  did  not  pale  nor  pine, 
For  earth  had  attained  to  heaven,  there  was  no  more  near 
nor  far. 

Nay  more;  for  there  wanted  not  who  walked  in  the  glare  and 

glow, 

Presences  plain  in  the  place;  or,  fresh  from  the  Protoplast, 

Furnished  for  ages  to  come,  when  a  kindlier  wind  should  blow, 

Lured  now  to  begin  and  live,  in  a  house  to  their  liking  at 

last ; 
Or  else  the  wonderful  Dead  who  have  passed  through  the 

body  and  gone, 
But  were  back  once  more  to  breathe  in  an  old  world  worth 

their  new: 

What  never  had  been,  was  now;  what  was,  as  it  shall  be  anon; 
And  what  is, — shall  I  say,  matched  both?  for  I  was  made 
perfect  too. 

All  through  my  keys  that  gave  their  sounds  to  a  wish  of  my 

soul, 
All  through  my  soul  that  praised  as  its  wish  flowed  visibly 

forth, 
All  through  music  and  me!    For  think,  had  I  painted  the 

whole, 

Why,  there  it  had  stood,  to  see,  nor  the  process  so  wonder- 
worth  : 


188  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Had  I  written  the  same,  made  verse — still,  effect  proceeds 
from  cause, 

Ye  know  why  the  forms  are  fair,  ye  hear  how  the  tale  is  told; 
It  is  all  triumphant  art,  but  art  in  obedience  to  laws, 

Painter  and  poet  are  proud  in  the  artist-list  enrolled: — 

But  here  is  the  finger  of  God,  a  flash  of  the  will  that  can, 

Existent  behind  all  laws,  that  made  them  and,  lo,  they  are! 
And  I  know  not  if,  save  in  this,  such  gift  be  allowed  to  man, 

That  out  of  three  sounds  he  frame,  not  a  fourth  sound, 

but  a  star. 
Consider  it  well:  each  tone  of  our  scale  in  itself  is  naught; 

It  is  everywhere  in  the  world — loud,  soft,  and  all  is  said: 
Give  it  to  me  to  use!  I  mix  it  with  two  in  my  thought: 

And  there!     Ye  have  heard  and  seen:  consider  and  bow  the 
head! 

Well,  it  is  gone  at  last,  the  palace  of  music  I  reared; 

Gone!  and  the  good  tears  start,  the  praises  that  come  too 

slow; 
For  one  is  assured  at  first,  one  scarce  can  say  that  he  feared, 

That  he  even  gave  it  a  thought,  the  gone  thing  was  to  go. 
Never  to  be  again!  But  many  more  of  the  kind 

As  good,  nay,  better  perchance:  is  this  your  comfort  to  me? 
To  me,  who  must  be  saved  because  I  cling  with  my  mind 

To  the  same,  same  self,  same  love,  same  God :  ay,  what  was, 
shall  be. 

Therefore  to  whom  turn  I  but  to  thee,  the  ineffable  Name? 

Builder  and  maker,  thou,  of  houses  not  made  with  hands! 

What,  have  fear  of  change  from  thee  who  art  ever  the  same? 

Doubt  that  thy  power  can  fill  the  heart  that  thy  power 

expands? 
There  shall  never  be  one  lost  good!     What  was,  shall  live  as 

before; 

The  evil  is  null,  Is  naught,  is  silence  implying  sound; 
What  was  good  shall  be  good,  with,  for  evil,  so  much  good 

more; 
On  the  earth  the  broken  arcs;  in  the  heaven  a  perfect  round. 

All  we  have  willed  or  hoped  or  dreamed  of  good  shall  exist; 
Not  its  semblance,  but  itself;  no  beauty,  nor  good,  nor 
power 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  189 

Whose  voice  has  gone  forth,  but  each  survives  for  the  melodist 
When  eternity  affirms  the  conception  of  an  hour. 

The  high  that  proved  too  high,  the  heroic  for  earth  too  hard, 
The  passion  that  left  the  ground  to  lose  itself  in  the  sky, 

Are  music  sent  up  to  God  by  the  lover  and  the  bard; 

Enough  that  he  heard  it  once:  we  shall  hear  it  by  and  bv. 

And  what  is  our  failure  here  but  a  triumph's  evidence 

For  the  fulness  of  the  days?     Have  we  withered  or  agon- 
ized? 
Why  else  was  the  pause  prolonged  but  that  singing  might 

issue  thence? 
Why  rushed  the  discords  in  but  that  harmony  should  be 

prized? 
Sorrow  is  hard  to  bear,  and  doubt  is  slow  to  clear, 

Each  sufferer  says  his  say,  his  scheme  of  the  weal  and  woe: 
But  God  has  a  few  of  us  whom  he  whispers  in  the  ear; 
The  rest  may  reason  and  welcome:  't  is  we  musicians  know. 

Well,  it  is  earth  with  me;  silence  resumes  her  reign: 

I  will  be  patient  and  proud,  and  soberly  acquiesce. 
Give  me  the  keys.     I  feel  for  the  common  chord  again, 

Sliding  by  semitones  till  I  sink  to  the  minor, — yes, 
And  I  blunt  it  into  a  ninth,  and  I  stand  on  alien  ground, 

Surveying  awhile  the  heights  I  rolled  from  into  the  deep; 
Which,  hark,  I  have  dared  and  done,  for  my  resting-place  is 
found, 

The  C  Major  of  this  life:  so,  now  I  will  try  to  sleep. 

(1864.) 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA1 

Grow  old  along  with  me! 

The  best  is  yet  to  be, 

The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was  made: 

Our  times  are  in  his  hand 

Who  saith,  "A  whole  I  planned, 

Youth  shows  but  half;  trust  God:  see  all,  nor  be  afraid!" 

1  Jewish  philosopher,  scholar,  and  writer  (1092-1167). 


190  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Not  that,  amassing  flowers, 
Youth  sighed,  "Which  rose  make  ours, 
Which  lily  leave  and  then  as  best  recall?" 
Not  that,  admiring  stars, 
It  yearned,  "Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars; 

Mine  be  some  figured  flame  which  blends,  transcends  them 
all!" 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears 

Annulling  youth's  brief  years, 

Do  I  remonstrate:  folly  wide  the  mark! 

Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 

Low  kinds  exist  without, 

Finished  and  finite  clods,  untroubled  by  a  spark. 

Poor  vaunt  of  life  indeed, 
Were  man  but  formed  to  feed 
On  joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  and  feast: 
Such  feasting  ended,  then 
As  sure  an  end  to  men; 

Irks  care  the  crop-full  bird?     Frets  doubt  the  maw-crammed 
beast? 

Rejoice  we  are  allied 

To  that  which  doth  provide 

And  not  partake,  effect  and  not  receive! 

A  spark  disturbs  our  clod; 

Nearer  we  hold  of  God 

Who  gives,  than  of  his  tribes  that  take,  I  must  believe. 

Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 

That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 

Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but  go! 

Be  our  joys  three-parts  pain! 

Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain; 

Learn,  nor  account  the  pang;  dare,  never  grudge  the  throe! 

For  thence, — a  paradox 

Which  comforts  while  it  mocks, — 

Shall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail: 

What  I  aspired  to  be, 

And  was  not,  comforts  me: 

A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would  not  sink  i'  the  scale. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  191 

What  is  he  but  a  brute 

Whose  flesh  hath  soul  to  suit, 

Whose  spirit  works  lest  arms  and  legs  want  play? 

To  man,  propose  this  test — 

Thy  body  at  its  best, 

How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its  lone  way? 

Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use: 

I  own  the  Past  profuse 

Of  power  each  side,  perfection  every  turn: 

Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole, 

Brain  treasured  up  the  whole; 

Should  not  the  heart  beat  once  "  How  good  to  live  and  learn"? 

Not  once  beat  "Praise  be  thine! 

I  see  the  whole  design, 

I,  who  saw  power,  see  now  Love  perfect  too: 

Perfect  I  call  thy  plan: 

Thanks  that  I  was  a  man! 

Maker,  remake,  complete, — I  trust  what  thou  shalt  do!" 

For  pleasant  is  this  flesh ; 

Our  soul,  in  its  rose-mesh 

Pulled  ever  to  the  earth,  still  yearns  for  rest; 

Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 

To  match  those  manifold 

Possessions  of  the  brute, — gain  most,  as  we  did  best! 

Let  us  not  always  say, 
"Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 

I  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground  upon  the  whole!" 
As  the  bird  wings  and  sings, 
Let  us  cry,  "All  good  things 

Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now,  than  flesh  helps 
soul!" 

Therefore  I  summon  age 

To  grant  youth's  heritage, 

Life's  struggle  having  so  far  reached  its  term: 

Thence  shall  I  pass,  approved 

A  man.  for  aye  removed 

From  the  developed  brute;  a  God  though  in  the  germ. 


192  ROBERT  BROWNING 

And  I  shall  thereupon 

Take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone 

Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave  and  new: 

Fearless  and  unperplexed, 

When  I  wage  battle  next, 

What  weapons  to  select,  what  armor  to  indue. 

Youth  ended,  I  shall  try 

My  gain  or  loss  thereby; 

Leave  the  fire  ashes,  what  survives  is  gold: 

And  I  shall  weigh  the  same, 

Give  life  its  praise  or  blame: 

Young,  all  lay  in  dispute;  I  shall  know,  being  old. 

For  note,  when  evening  shuts, 

A  certain  moment  cuts 

The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the  gray: 

A  whisper  from  the  west 

Shoots— "Add  this  to  the  rest, 

Take  it  and  try  its  worth:  here  dies  another  day." 

So,  still  within  this  life, 

Though  lifted  o'er  its  strife, 

Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce  at  last, 

"This  rage  was  right  i'  the  main, 

That  acquiescence  vain: 

The  Future  I  may  face  now  I  have  proved  the  Past." 

For  more  is  not  reserved 

To  man,  with  soul  just  nerved 

To  act  to-morrow  what  he  learns  to-day: 

Here,  work  enough  to  watch 

The  Master  work,  and  catch 

Hints  of  the  proper  craft,  tricks  of  the  tool's  true  play. 

As  it  was  better,  youth 

Should  strive,  through  acts  uncouth, 

Toward  making,  then  repose  on  aught  found  made: 

So,  better,  age,  exempt 

From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 

Further.     Thou  waitedst  age:  wait  death  nor  be  afraid! 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  193 

Enough  now,  if  the  Right 

And  Good  and  Infinite 

Be  named  here,  as  thou  callest  thy  hand  thine  own, 

With  knowledge  absolute, 

Subject  to  no  dispute 

From  fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor  let  thee  feel  alone. 

Be  there,  for  once  and  all, 

Severed  great  minds  from  small, 

Announced  to  each  his  station  in  the  Past! 

Was  I,  the  world  arraigned, 

Were  they,  my  soul  disdained, 

Right?     Let  age  speak  the  truth  and  give  us  peace  at  last! 

Now,  who  shall  arbitrate? 

Ten  men  love  what  I  hate, 

Shun  what  I  follow,  slight  what  I  receive; 

Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes 

Match  me:  we  all  surmise, 

They  this  thing,  and  I  that :  whom  shall  my  soul  believe? 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 

Called  "work,"  must  sentence  pass, 

Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had  the  price; 

O'er  which,  from  level  stand, 

The  low  world  laid  its  hand, 

Found  straightway  to  its  mind,  could  value  in  a  trice: 

But  all,  the  world's  coarse  thumb 

And  finger  failed  to  plumb, 

So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  account; 

All  instincts  immature, 

All  purposes  unsure, 

That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet  swelled  the  man's  amount : 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 

Into  a  narrow  act, 

Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and  escaped; 

All  I  could  never  be, 

All,  men  ignored  in  me, 

This,  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  wheel  the  pitcher  shaped. 


194  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel,1 

That  metaphor!  and  feel 

Why  time  spins  fast,  why  passive  lies  our  clay, — 

Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound, 

When  the  wine  makes  its  round, 

"Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change;  the  Past  gone,  seize  to-day!" 

Fool!    All  that  is,  at  all, 

Lasts  ever,  past  recall; 

Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and  God  stand  sure: 

What  entered  into  thee, 

That  was,  is,  and  shall  be: 

Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops:  Potter  and  clay  endure. 

He  fixed  thee  'mid  this  dance 

Of  plastic  circumstance, 

This  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  would  fain  arrest: 

Machinery  just  meant 

To  give  thy  soul  its  bent, 

Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  sufficiently  impressed. 

What  though  the  earlier  grooves 

WThich  ran  the  laughing  loves 

Around  thy  base,  no  longer  pause  and  press? 

What  though,  about  thy  rim, 

Skull-things  in  order  grim 

Grow  out,  in  graver  mood,  obey  the  sterner  stress? 

Look  not  thou  down  but  up! 
To  uses  of  a  cup, 

The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash  and  trumpet's  peal, 
The  new  wine's  foaming  flow, 
The  Master's  lips  aglow! 

Thou,   heaven's  consummate  cup,   what  needst  thou  with 
earth's  wheel? 

But  I  need,  now  as  then, 

Thee,  God,  who  mouldest  men; 

And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was  worst, 

Did  I — to  the  wheel  of  life 

With  shapes  and  colors  rife, 

Bound  dizzily — mistake  my  end,  to  slake  thy  thirst: 

1  See  Isaiah  64:  8;  Jeremiah  18:2-6;  and  Fitzgerald's  rendering  of 
the   Rubdiydt  of  Omar   Khayydm. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  195 

So,  take  and  use  thy  work: 
Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk, 

What  strain  o'  the  stuff,  what  warpings  past  the  aim! 
My  times  be  in  thy  hand! 
Perfect  the  cup  as  planned! 

Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death  complete  the  same! 

(1864.) 


A  DEATH   IN  THE   DESERT 

[Supposed  of  Pamphylax  the  Antiochene : 
It  is  a  parchment,  of  my  rolls  the  fifth, 
Hath  three  skins  glued  together,  is  all  Greek 
And  goeth  from  Epsilon  down  to  Mu: 
Lies  second  in  the  surnamed  Chosen  Chest, 
Stained  and  conserved  with  juice  of  terebinth, 
Covered  with  cloth  of  hair,  and  lettered  Xi, 
From  Xanthus,  my  wife's  uncle,  now  at  peace: 
Mu  and  Epsilon  stand  for  my  own  name. 
I  may  not  write  it,  but  I  make  a  cross 
To  show  I  wait  His  coming,  with  the  rest, 
And  leave  off  here:  beginneth  Pamphylax.] 

I  said,  "If  one  should  wet  his  lips  with  wine, 

And  slip  the  broadest  plantain-leaf  we  find, 

Or  else  the  lappet  of  a  linen  robe, 

Into  the  water- vessel,  lay  it  right, 

And  cool  his  forehead  just  above  the  eyes, 

The  while  a  brother,  kneeling  either  side, 

Should  chafe  each  hand  and  try  to  make  it  warm,- 

He  is  not  so  far  gone  but  he  might  speak." 

This  did  not  happen  in  the  outer  cave, 
Nor  in  the  secret  chamber  of  the  rock 
Where,  sixty  days  since  the  decree  was  out, 
We  had  him,  bedded  on  a  camel-skin, 
And  waited  for  his  dying  all  the  while; 
But  in  the  midmost  grotto :  since  noon's  light 
Reached  there  a  little,  and  we  would  not  lose 
The  last  of  what  might  happen  on  his  face. 


196  ROBERT  BROWNING 

I  at  the  head,  and  Xanthus  at  the  feet, 

With  Valens  and  the  Boy,  had  lifted  him, 

And  brought  him  from  the  chamber  in  the  depths, 

And  laid  him  in  the  light  where  we  might  see: 

For  certain  smiles  began  about  his  mouth, 

And  his  lids  moved,  presageful  of  the  end. 

Beyond,  and  half  way  up  the  mouth  o '  the  cave, 
The  Bactrian  convert,  having  his  desire, 
Kept  watch,  and  made  pretence  to  graze  a  goat 
That  gave  us  milk,  on  rags  of  various  herb, 
Plantain  and  quitch,  the  rocks'  shade  keeps  alive: 
So  that  if  any  thief  or  soldier  passed, 
(Because  the  persecution  was  aware) 
Yielding  the  goat  up  promptly  with  his  life, 
Such  man  might  pass  on,  joyful  at  a  prize, 
Nor  care  to  pry  into  the  cool  o'  the  cave. 
Outside  was  all  noon  and  the  burning  blue. 

"Here  is  wine,"  answered  Xanthus, — dropped  a  drop; 

I  stooped  and  placed  the  lap  of  cloth  aright, 

Then  chafed  his  right  hand,  and  the  Boy  his  left: 

But  Valens  had  bethought  him,  and  produced 

And  broke  a  ball  of  nard,  and  made  perfume. 

Only,  he  did — not  so  much  wake,  as — turn 

And  smile  a  little,  as  a  sleeper  does 

If  any  dear  one  call  him,  touch  his  face — • 

And  smiles  and  loves,  but  will  not  be  disturbed. 

Then  Xanthus  said  a  prayer,  but  still  he  slept : 

It  is  the  Xanthus  that  escaped  to  Rome, 

Was  burned,  and  could  not  write  the  chronicle. 

Then  the  Boy  sprang  up  from  his  knees,  and  ran, 
Stung  by  the  splendour  of  a  sudden  thought, 
And  fetched  the  seventh  plate  of  graven  lead 
Out  of  the  secret  chamber,  found  a  place, 
Pressing  with  finger  on  the  deeper  dints, 
And  spoke,  as  'twere  his  mouth  proclaiming  first, 
"I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life." 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  197 

Whereat  he  opened  his  eyes  wide  at  once, 
And  sat  up  of  himself,  and  looked  at  us; 
And  thenceforth  nobody  pronounced  a  word: 
Only,  outside,  the  Bactrian  cried  his  cry 
Like  the  lone  desert-bird  that  wears  the  ruff, 
As  signal  we  were  safe,  from  time  to  time. 

First  he  said,  "If  a  friend  declared  to  me, 

This  my  sen  Valens,  this  my  other  son, 

Were  James  and  Peter, — nay,  declared  as  well 

This  lad  was  very  John, — I  could  believe! 

— Could,  for  a  moment,  doubtlessly  believe: 

So  is  myself  withdrawn  into  my  depths, 

The  soul  retreated  from  the  perished  brain 

Whence  it  was  wont  to  feel  and  use  the  world 

Through  these  dull  members,  done  with  long  ago. 

Yet  I  myself  remain;  I  feel  myself: 

And  there  is  nothing  lost.     Let  be,  awhile!" 

[This  is  the  doctrine  he  was  wont  to  teach, 

How  divers  persons  witness  in  each  man, 

Three  souls  which  make  up  one  soul:  first,  to  wit, 

A  soul  of  each  and  all  the  bodily  parts, 

Seated  therein,  which  works,  and  is  what  Does, 

And  has  the  use  of  earth,  and  ends  the  man 

Downward:  but,  tending  upward  for  advice, 

Grows  into,  and  again  is  grown  into 

By  the  next  soul,  which,  seated  in  the  brain, 

Useth  the  first  with  its  collected  use, 

And  feeleth,  thinketh,  willeth, — is  what  Knows: 

Which,  duly  tending  upward  in  its  turn, 

Grows  into,  and  again  is  grown  into 

By  the  last  soul,  that  uses  both  the  first, 

Subsisting  whether  they  assist  or  no, 

And,  constituting  man's  self,  is  what  Is — 

And  leans  upon  the  former,  makes  it  play, 

As  that  played  off  the  first:  and,  tending  up, 

Holds,  is  upheld  by,  God,  and  ends  the  man 

Upward  in  that  dread  point  of  intercourse, 

Nor  needs  a  place,  for  it  returns  to  Him. 

What  Does,  what  Knows,  what  Is;  three  souls,  one  man. 

I  give  the  glossa  of  Theotypas.] 


198  ROBERT  BROWNING 

And  then,  "A  stick,  once  fire  from  end  to  end; 

Now,  ashes  save  the  tip  that  holds  a  spark! 

Yet,  blow  the  spark,  it  runs  back,  spreads  itself 

A  little  where  the  fire  was:  thus  I  urge 

The  soul  that  served  me,  till  it  task  once  more 

What  ashes  of  my  brain  have  kept  their  shape, 

And  these  make  effort  on  the  last  o'  the  flesh, 

Trying  to  taste  again  the  truth  of  things — 

(He  smiled) — "their  very  superficial  truth; 

As  that  ye  are  my  sons,  that  it  is  long 

Since  James  and  Peter  had  release  by  death, 

And  I  am  only  he,  your  brother  John, 

Who  saw  and  heard,  and  could  remember  all. 

Remember  all!    It  is  not  much  to  say. 

What  if  the  truth  broke  on  me  from  above 

As  once  and  oft-times?     Such  might  hap  again : 

Doubtlessly  He  might  stand  in  presence  here, 

With  head  wool-white,  eyes  flame,  and  feet  like  brass, 

The  sword  and  the  seven  stars,  as  I  have  seen — 

I  who  now  shudder  only  and  surmise 

'How  did  your  brother  bear  that  sight  and  live?' 

"If  I  live  yet,  it  is  for  good,  more  love 
Through  me  to  men:  be  nought  but  ashes  here 
That  keep  awhile  my  semblance,  who  was  John, — 
Still,  when  they  scatter,  there  is  left  on  earth 
No  one  alive  who  knew  (consider  this!) 
— Saw  with  his  eyes  and  handled  with  his  hands 
That  which  was  from  the  first,  the  Word  of  Life. 
How  will  it  be  when  none  more  saith  'I  saw'? 

"Such  ever  was  love's  way:  to  rise,  it  stoops. 

Since  I,  whom  Christ's  mouth  taught,  was  bidden  teach, 

I  went,  for  many  years,  about  the  world, 

Saying  'It  was  so;  so  I  heard  and  saw/ 

Speaking  as  the  case  asked:  and  men  believed. 

Afterward  came  the  message  to  myself 

In  Patmos  isle;  I  was  not  bidden  teach, 

But  simply  listen,  take  a  book  and  write, 

Nor  set  down  other  than  the  given  word, 

With  nothing  left  to  my  arbitrament 

To  choose  or  change:  I  wrote,  and  men  believed. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  199 

Then,  for  my  time  grew  brief,  no  message  more, 

No  call  to  write  again,  I  found  a  way, 

And,  reasoning  from  my  knowledge,  merely  taught 

Men  should,  for  love's  sake,  in  love's  strength  believe; 

Or  I  would  pen  a  letter  to  a  friend 

And  urge  the  same  as  friend,  nor  less  nor  more: 

Friends  said  I  reasoned  rightly,  and  believed. 

But  at  the  last,  why,  I  seemed  left  alive 

Like  a  sea-jelly  weak  on  Patmos  strand, 

To  tell  dry  sea-beach  gazers  how  I  fared 

When  there  was  mid-sea,  and  the  mighty  things; 

Left  to  repeat,  'I  saw,  I  heard,  I  knew,' 

And  go  all  over  the  old  ground  again, 

With  Antichrist  already  in  the  world, 

And  many  Antichrists,  who  answered  prompt 

'Am  I  not  Jasper  as  thyself  art  John? 

Nay,  young,  whereas  through  age  thou  mayest  forget: 

Wherefore,  explain,  or  how  shall  we  believe?' 

I  never  thought  to  call  down  fire  on  such, 

Or,  as  in  wonderful  and  early  days, 

Pick  up  the  scorpion,  tread  the  serpent  dumb; 

But  patient  stated  much  of  the  Lord's  life 

Forgotten  or  misdelivered,  and  let  it  work: 

Since  much  that  at  the  first,  in  deed  and  word, 

Lay  simply  and  sufficiently  exposed, 

Had  grown  (or  else  my  soul  was  grown  to  match, 

Fed  through  such  years,  familiar  with  such  light, 

Guarded  and  guided  still  to  see  and  speak) 

Of  new  significance  and  fresh  result; 

What  first  were  guessed  as  points,  I  now  knew  stars, 

And  named  them  in  the  Gospel  I  have  writ. 

For  men  said,  'It  is  getting  long  ago: 

Where  is  the  promise  of  His  coming? ' — asked 

These  young  ones  in  their  strength,  as  loth  to  wait, 

Of  me  who,  when  their  sires  were  born,  was  old. 

I,  for  I  loved  them,  answered,  joyfully, 

Since  I  was  there,  and  helpful  in  my  age; 

And,  in  the  main,  I  think  such  men  believed. 

Finally,  thus  endeavouring,  I  fell  sick, 

Ye  brought  me  here,  and  I  supposed  the  end, 

And  went  to  sleep  with  one  thought  that,  at  least, 

Though  the  whole  earth  should  lie  in  wickedness, 


200  ROBERT  BROWNING 

We  had  the  truth,  might  leave  the  rest  to  God. 
Yet  now  I  wake  in  such  decrepitude 
As  I  had  slidden  down  and  fallen  afar, 
Past  even  the  presence  of  my  former  self, 
Grasping  the  while  for  stay  at  facts  which  snap, 
Till  I  am  found  away  from  my  own  world, 
Feeling  for  foot-hold  through  a  blank  profound, 
Along  with  unborn  people  in  strange  lands, 
Who  say — I  hear  said  or  conceive  they  say — 
'Was  John  at  all,  and  did  he  say  he  saw? 
Assure  us,  ere  we  ask  what  he  might  see!' 

"And  how  shall  I  assure  them?    Can  they  share 

— They,  who  have  flesh,  a  veil  of  youth  and  strength 

About  each  spirit,  that  needs  must  bide  its  time, 

Living  and  learning  still  as  years  assist 

Which  wear  the  thickness  thin,  and  let  man  see — 

With  me  who  hardly  am  withheld  at  all, 

But  shudderingly,  scarce  a  shred  between, 

Lie  bare  to  the  universal  prick  of  light? 

Is  it  for  nothing  we  grow  old  and  weak, 

We  whom  God  loves?     When  pain  ends,  gain  ends  too. 

To  me,  that  story — ay,  that  Life  and  Death 

Of  which  I  wrote  'it  was' — to  me,  it  is; 

— Is,  here  and  now:  I  apprehend  nought  else. 

Is  not  God  now  i'  the  world  His  power  first  made? 

Is  not  His  love  at  issue  still  with  sin, 

Visibly  when  a  wrong  is  done  on  earth? 

Love,  wrong,  and  pain,  what  see  I  else  around? 

Yea,  and  the  Resurrection  and  Uprise 

To  the  right  hand  of  the  throne — what  is  it  beside, 

When  such  truth,  breaking  bounds,  o'erfloods  my  soul, 

And,  as  I  saw  the  sin  and  death,  even  so 

See  I  the  need  yet  transiency  of  both, 

The  good  and  glory  consummated  thence? 

I  saw  the  power;  I  see  the  Love,  once  weak, 

Resume  the  Power:  and  in  this  word  'I  see,' 

Lo,  there  is  recognized  the  Spirit  of  both 

That  moving  o'er  the  spirit  of  man,  unblinds 

His  eye  and  bids  him  look.    These  are,  I  see; 

But  ye,  the  children,  His  beloved  ones  too, 

Ye  need, — as  I  should  use  an  optic  glass 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  201 

I  wondered  at  ere  while,  somehwere  i'  the  world, 

It  had  been  given  a  crafty  smith  to  make; 

A  tube,  he  turned  on  objects  brought  too  close, 

Lying  confusedly  insubordinate 

For  the  unassisted  eye  to  master  once: 

Look  through  his  tube,  at  distance  now  they  lay, 

Become  succinct,  distinct,  so  small,  so  clear! 

Just  thus,  ye  needs  must  apprehend  what  truth 

I  see,  reduced  to  plain  historic  fact, 

Diminished  into  clearness,  proved  a  point 

And  far  away:  ye  would  withdraw  your  sense 

From  out  eternity,  strain  it  upon  time, 

Then  stand  before  that  fact,  that  Life  and  Death, 

Stay  there  at  gaze,  till  it  dispart,  dispread, 

As  though  a  star  should  open  out,  all  sides, 

Grow  the  world  on  you,  as  it  is  my  world. 

"For  life,  with  all  it  yields  of  joy  and  woe, 

And  hope  and  fear, — believe  the  aged  friend, — 

Is  just  our  chance  o'  the  prize  of  learning  love, 

How  love  might  be,  hath  been  indeed,  and  is; 

And  that  we  hold  thenceforth  to  the  uttermost 

Such  prize  despite  the  envy  of  the  world, 

And,  having  gained  truth,  keep  truth:  that  is  all. 

But  see  the  double  way  wherein  we  are  led, 

How  the  soul  learns  diversely  from  the  flesh! 

With  flesh,  that  hath  so  little  time  to  stay, 

And  yields  mere  basement  for  the  soul's  emprise, 

Expect  prompt  teaching.     Helpful  was  the  light, 

And  warmth  was  cherishing  and  food  was  choice 

To  every  man's  flesh,  thousand  years  ago, 

As  now  to  yours  and  mine ;  the  body  sprang 

At  once  to  the  height,  and  stayed:  but  the  soul, — no! 

Since  sages  who,  this  noontide,  meditate 

In  Rome  or  Athens,  may  descry  some  point 

Of  the  eternal  power,  hid  yestereve; 

And,  as  thereby  the  power's  whole  mass  extends, 

So  much  extends  the  sether  floating  o'er, 

The  love  that  tops  the  might,  the  Christ  in  God. 

Then,  as  new  lessons  shall  be  learned  in  these 

Till  earth's  work  stop  and  useless  time  run  out, 

So  duly,  daily,  needs  provision  be 


202  ROBERT  BROWNING 

For  keeping  the  soul's  prowess  possible, 

Building  new  barriers  as  the  old  decay, 

Saving  us  from  evasion  of  life's  proof, 

Putting  the  question  ever,  'Does  God  love, 

And  will  ye  hold  that  truth  against  the  world?' 

Ye  know  there  needs  no  second  proof  with  good 

Gained  for  our  flesh  from  any  earthly  source: 

We  might  go  freezing,  ages, — give  us  fire, 

Thereafter  we  judge  fire  at  its  full  worth, 

And  guard  it  safe  through  every  chance,  ye  know! 

That  fable  of  Prometheus  and  his  theft, 

How  mortals  gained  Jove's  fiery  flower,  grows  old 

(I  have  been  used  to  hear  the  pagans  own) 

And  out  of  mind;  but  fire,  howe'er  its  birth, 

Here  is  it,  precious  to  the  sophist  now 

Who  laughs  the  myth  of  ^Eschylus  to  scorn, 

As  precious  to  those  satyrs  of  his  play, 

Who  touched  it  in  gay  wonder  at  the  thing. 

While  were  it  so  with  the  soul, — this  gift  of  truth 

Once  grasped,  were  this  our  soul's  gain  safe,  and  sure 

To  prosper  as  the  body's  gain  is  wont, — 

Why,  man's  probation  would  conclude,  his  earth 

Crumble;  for  he  both  reasons  and  decides, 

Weighs  first,  then  chooses:  will  he  give  up  fire 

For  gold  or  purple  once  he  knows  its  worth? 

Could  he  give  Christ  up  were  His  worth  as  plain? 

Therefore,  I  say,  to  test  man,  the  proofs  shift, 

Nor  may  he  grasp  that  fact  like  other  fact, 

And  straightway  in  his  life  acknowledge  it, 

As,  say,  the  indubitable  bliss  of  fire. 

Sigh  ye,  'It  had  been  easier  once  than  now'? 

To  give  you  answer  I  am  left  alive; 

Look  at  me  who  was  present  from  the  first! 

Ye  know  what  things  I  saw;  then  came  a  test, 

My  first,  befitting  me  who  so  had  seen: 

'Forsake  the  Christ  thou  sawest  transfigured,  Him 

Who  trod  the  sea  and  brought  the  dead  to  life? 

What  should  wring  this  from  thee!' — ye  laugh  and  ask. 

What  wrung  it?     Even  a  torchlight  and  a  noise, 

The  sudden  Roman  faces,  violent  hands, 

And  fear  of  what  the  Jews  might  do!     Just  that, 

And  it  is  written,  'I  forsook  and  fled:' 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  203 

There  was  my  trial,  and  it  ended  thus. 

Ay,  but  my  soul  had  gained  its  truth,  could  grow: 

Another  year  or  two, — what  little  child, 

What  tender  woman  that  had  seen  no  least 

Of  all  my  sights,  but  barely  heard  them  told, 

Who  did  not  clasp  the  cross  with  a  light  laugh, 

Or  wrap  the  burning  robe  round,  thanking  God? 

Well,  was  truth  safe  for  ever,  then?     Not  so. 

Already  had  begun  the  silent  work 

Whereby  truth,  deadened  of  its  absolute  blaze, 

Might  need  love's  eye  to  pierce  the  o'erstretched  doubt. 

Teachers  were  busy,  whispering  'All  is  true 

As  the  aged  ones  report;  but  youth  can  reach 

Where  age  gropes  dimly,  weak  with  stir  and  strain, 

And  the  full  doctrine  slumbers  till  to-day.' 

Thus,  what  the  Roman's  lowered  spear  was  found, 

A  bar  to  me  who  touched  and  handled  truth, 

Now  proved  the  glozing  of  some  new  shrewd  tongue, 

This  Ebipn,  this  Cerinthus  or  their  mates, 

Till  imminent  was  the  outcry  'Save  our  Christ!' 

Whereon  I  stated  much  of  the  Lord's  life 

Forgotten  or  misdelivered,  and  let  it  work. 

Such  work  done,  as  it  will  be,  what  comes  next? 

What  do  I  hear  say,  or  conceive  men  say, 

'Was  John  at  all,  and  did  he  say  he  saw? 

Assure  us,  ere  we  ask  what  he  might  see!' 

Is  this  indeed  a  burthen  for  late  days, 

And  may  I  help  to  bear  it  with  you  all, 

Using  my  weakness  which  becomes  your  strength? 

For  if  a  babe  were  born  inside  this  grot, 

Grew  to  a  boy  here,  heard  us  praise  the  sun, 

Yet  had  but  yon  sole  glimmer  in  light's  place, — 

One  loving  him  and  wishful  he  should  learn, 

Would  much  rejoice  himself  was  blinded  first 

Month  by  month  here,  so  made  to  understand 

How  eyes,  born  darkling,  apprehend  amiss: 

I  think  I  could  explain  to  such  a  child 

There  was  more  glow  outside  than  gleams  he  caught, 

Ay,  nor  need  urge  'I  saw  it,  so  believe!' 

It  is  a  heavy  burthen  you  shall  bear 


204  ROBERT  BROWNING 

In  latter  days,  new  lands,  or  old  grown  strange, 

Left  without  me,  which  must  be  very  soon. 

What  is  the  doubt,  my  brothers?    Quick  with  it! 

I  see  you  stand  conversing,  each  new  face, 

Either  in  fields,  of  yellow  summer  eves, 

On  islets  yet  unnamed  amid  the  sea; 

Or  pace  for  shelter  'neath  a  portico 

Out  of  the  crowd  in  some  enormous  town 

WThere  now  the  larks  sing  in  a  solitude; 

Or  muse  upon  blank  heaps  of  stone  and  sand 

Idly  conjectured  to  be  Ephesus: 

And  no  one  asks  his  fellow  any  more 

'Where  is  the  promise  of  His  coming?'  but 

'Was  he  revealed  in  any  of  His  lives, 

As  Power,  as  Love,  as  Influencing  Soul?' 

"Quick,  for  time  presses,  tell  the  whole  mind  out, 
And  let  us  ask  and  answer  and  be  saved! 
My  book  speaks  on,  because  it  cannot  pass; 
One  listens  quietly,  nor  scoffs  but  pleads 
'Here  is  a  tale  of  things  done  ages  since; 
What  truth  was  ever  told  the  second  day? 
Wonders,  that  would  prove  doctrine,  go  for  nought. 
Remains  the  doctrine,  love;  well,  we  must  love, 
And  what  we  love  most,  power  and  love  in  one, 
Let  us  acknowledge  on  the  record  here, 
Accepting  these  in  Christ:  must  Christ  then  be? 
Has  He  been?     Did  not  we  ourselves  make  Him? 
Our  mind  receives  but  what  it  holds,  no  more. 
First  of  the  love,  then;  we  acknowledge  Christ — 
A  proof  we  comprehend  His  love,  a  proof 
We  had  such  love  already  in  ourselves, 
Knew  first  what  else  we  should  not  recognize. 
"Tis  mere  projection  from  man's  inmost  mind, 
And,  what  he  loves,  thus  falls  reflected  back, 
Becomes  accounted  somewhat  out  of  him; 
He  throws  it  up  in  air,  it  drops  down  earth's, 
With  shape,  name,  story  added,  man's  old  way. 
How  prove  you  Christ  came  other  wise  at  least? 
Next  try  the  power:  He  made  and  rules  the  world: 
Certes  there  is  a  world  once  made,  now  ruled, 
Unless  things  have  been  ever  as  we  see. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  205 

Our  sires  declared  a  charioteer's  yoked  steeds 

Brought  the  sun  up  the  east  and  down  the  west, 

Which  only  of  itself  now  rises,  sets, 

As  if  a  hand  impelled  it  and  a  will, — 

Thus  they  long  thought,  they  who  had  will  and  hands: 

But  the  new  question's  whisper  is  distinct, 

Wherefore  must  all  force  needs  be  like  ourselves? 

We  have  the  hands,  the  will;  what  made  and  drives 

The  sun  is  force,  is  law,  is  named,  not  known, 

While  will  and  love  we  do  know;  marks  of  these, 

Eye-witnesses  attest,  so  books  declare — 

As  that,  to  punish  or  reward  our  race, 

The  sun  at  undue  times  arose  or  set 

Or  else  stood  still:  what  do  not  men  affirm? 

But  earth  requires  as  urgently  reward 

Or  punishment  to-day  as  years  ago, 

And  none  expects  the  sun  will  interpose: 

Therefore  it  was  mere  passion  and  mistake, 

Or  erring  zeal  for  right,  which  changed  the  truth. 

Go  back,  far,  farther,  to  the  birth  of  things; 

Ever  the  will,  the  intelligence,  the  love, 

Man's! — which  he  gives,  supposing  he  but  finds, 

As  late  he  gave  head,  body,  hands  and  feet, 

To  help  these  in  what  forms  he  called  his  gods. 

First,  Jove's  brow,  Juno's  eyes  were  swept  away, 

But  Jove's  wrath,  Juno's  pride  continued  long; 

At  last,  will,  power,  and  love  discarded  these, 

So  law  in  turn  discards  power,  love,  and  will. 

What  proveth  God  is  otherwise  at  least? 

All  else,  projection  from  the  mind  of  man!' 

"Nay,  do  not  give  me  wine,  for  I  am  strong, 
But  place  my  gospel  where  I  put  my  hands. 

"I  say  that  man  was  made  to  grow,  not  step; 
That  help,  he  needed  once,  and  needs  no  more, 
Having  grown  but  an  inch  by,  is  withdrawn: 
For  he  hath  new  needs,  and  new  helps  to  these. 
This  imports  solely,  man  should  mount  on  each 
New  height  in  view;  the  help  whereby  he  mounts, 
The  ladder-rung  his  foot  has  left,  may  fall, 
Since  all  things  suffer  change  save  God  the  Truth. 


206  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Man  apprehends  Him  newly  at  each  stage 

Whereat  earth's  ladder  drops,  its  service  done; 

And  nothing  shall  prove  twice  what  once  was  proved. 

You  stick  a  garden-plot  with  ordered  twigs 

To  show  inside  lie  germs  of  herbs  unborn, 

And  check  the  careless  step  would  spoil  their  birth ; 

But  when  herbs  wave,  the  guardian  twigs  may  go, 

Since  should  ye  doubt  of  virtues,  question  kinds, 

It  is  no  longer  for  old  twigs  ye  look, 

Which  proved  once  underneath  lay  store  of  seed, 

But  to  the  herb's  self,  by  what  light  ye  boast, 

For  what  fruit's  signs  are.     This  book's  fruit  is  plain, 

Nor  miracles  need  prove  it  any  more. 

Doth  the  fruit  show?     Then  miracles  bade  'ware 

At  first  of  root  and  stem,  saved  both  till  now 

From  trampling  ox,  rough  boar  and  wanton  goat. 

What?     Was  man  made  a  wheelwork  to  wind  up, 

And  be  discharged,  and  straight  wound  up  anew? 

No! — grown,  his  growth  lasts;  taught,  he  ne'er  forgets: 

May  learn  a  thousand  things,  not  twice  the  same. 

"This  might  be  pagan  teaching:  now  hear  mine. 

"I  say,  that  as  the  babe,  you  feed  awhile, 

Becomes  a  boy  and  fit  to  feed  himself, 

So,  minds  at  first  must  be  spoon-fed  with  truth: 

When  they  can  eat,  babe's-nurture  is  withdrawn. 

I  fed  the  babe  whether  it  would  or  no: 

I  bid  the  boy  or  feed  himself  or  starve. 

I  cried  once,  'That  ye  may  believe  in  Christ, 

Behold  this  blind  man  shall  receive  his  sight!' 

I  cry  now,  'Urgest  thou,  for  I  am  shrewd 

And  smile  at  stories  how  John's  word  could  cure — 

Repeat  that  miracle  and  take  my  faith?' 

I  say,  that  miracle  was  duly  wrought 

When,  save  for  it,  no  faith  was  possible. 

Whether  a  change  were  wrought  i'  the  shows  o'  the  world, 

Whether  the  change  came  from  our  minds  which  see 

Of  shows  o'  the  world  so  much  as  and  no  more 

Than  God  wills  for  His  purpose, — (what  do  I 

See  now,  suppose  you,  there  where  you  see  rock 

Round  us?) — I  know  not;  such  was  the  effect, 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  207 

So  faith  grew,  making  void  more  miracles 
Because  too  much:  they  would  compel,  not  help. 
I  say,  the  acknowledgment  of  God  in  Christ 
Accepted  by  thy  reason,  solves  for  thee 
All  questions  in  the  earth  and  out  of  it, 
And  has  so  far  advanced  thee  to  be  wise. 
Wouldst  thou  unprove  this  to  re-prove  the  proved? 
In  life's  mere  minute,  with  power  to  use  that  proof, 
Leave  knowledge  and  revert  to  how  it  sprung? 
Thou  hast  it;  use  it  and  forthwith,  or  die! 

"For  I  say,  this  is  death  and  the  sole  death, 

When  a  man's  loss  comes  to  him  from  his  gain, 

Darkness  from  light,  from  knowledge  ignorance, 

And  lack  of  love  from  love  made  manifest; 

A  lamp's  death  when,  replete  with  oil,  it  chokes; 

A  stomach's  when,  surcharged  with  food,  it  starves. 

With  ignorance  was  surety  of  a  cure. 

When  man,  appalled  at  nature,  questioned  first 

'  What  if  there  lurk  a  might  behind  this  might? ' 

He  needed  satisfaction  God  could  give, 

And  did  give,  as  ye  have  the  written  word: 

But  when  he  finds  might  still  redouble  might, 

Yet  asks,  'Since  all  is  might,  what  use  of  will?' 

— Will,  the  one  source  of  might, — he  being  man 

WTith  a  man's  will  and  a  man's  might,  to  teach 

In  little  how  the  two  combine  in  large, — 

That  man  has  turned  round  on  himself  and  stands, 

Which  in  the  course  of  nature  is,  to  die. 

"And  when  man  questioned,  'What  if  there  be  love 
Behind  the  will  and  might,  as  real  as  they?' — 
He  needed  satisfaction  God  could  give, 
And  did  give,  as  ye  have  the  written  word: 
But  when,  beholding  that  love  everywhere, 
He  reasons,  '  Since  such  love  is  everywhere, 
And  since  ourselves  can  love  and  would  be  loved, 
We  ourselves  make  the  love,  and  Christ  was  not/ — 
How  shall  ye  help  this  man  who  knows  himself, 
That  he  must  love  and  would  be  loved  again, 
Yet,  owning  his  own  love  that  proveth  Christ, 
Rejecteth  Christ  through  very  need  of  Him? 


208  ROBERT  BROWNING 

The  lamp  o'erswims  with  oil,  the  stomach  flags 
Loaded  with  nurture,  and  that  man's  soul  dies. 

"If  he  rejoin,  'But  this  was  all  the  while 

A  trick;  the  fault  was,  first  of  all,  in  thee, 

Thy  story  of  the  places,  names  and  dates, 

Where,  when  and  how  the  ultimate  truth  had  rise, 

— Thy  prior  truth,  at  last  discovered  none, 

Whence  now  the  second  suffers  detriment. 

What  good  of  giving  knowledge  if,  because 

0'  the  manner  of  the  gift,  its  profit  fail? 

And  why  refuse  what  modicum  of  help 

Had  stopped  the  after-doubt,  impossible 

I'  the  face  of  truth — truth  absolute,  uniform? 

Why  must  I  hit  of  this  and  miss  of  that, 

Distinguish  just  as  I  be  weak  or  strong, 

And  not  ask  of  thee  and  have  answer  prompt, 

Was  this  once,  was  it  not  once? — then  and  now 

And  evermore,  plain  truth  from  man  to  man. 

Is  John's  procedure  just  the  heathen  bard's? 

Put  the  question  of  his  famous  play  again 

How  for  the  ephemerals'  sake  Jove's  fire  was  filched, 

And  carried  in  a  cane  and  brought  to  earth: 

The  fact  is  in  the  fable,  cry  the  wise, 

Mortals  obtained  the  boon,  so  much  is  fact, 

Though  fire  be  spirit  and  produced  on  earth. 

As  with  the  Titan's,  so  now  with  thy  tale: 

Why  breed  in  us  perplexity,  mistake, 

Nor  tell  the  whole  truth  in  the  proper  words? ' 

"I  answer.  Have  ye  yet  to  argue  out 

The  very  primal  thesis,  plainest  law, 

— Man  is  not  God  but  hath  God's  end  to  serve, 

A  master  to  obey,  a  course  to  take, 

Somewhat  to  cast  off,  somewhat  to  become? 

Grant  this,  then  man  must  pass  from  old  to  new, 

From  vain  to  real,  from  mistake  to  fact, 

From  what  once  seemed  good,  to  what  now  proves  best. 

How  could  man  have  progression  otherwise? 

Before  the  point  was  mooted  'What  is  God?' 

No  savage  man  inquired  'What  am  myself?' 

Much  less  replied,  'First,  last,  and  best  of  things.' 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  209 

Man  takes  that  title  now  if  he  believes 

Might  can  exist  with  neither  will  nor  love, 

In  God's  case — what  he  names  now  Nature's  Law — 

While  in  himself  he  recognizes  love 

No  less  than  might  and  will:  and  rightly  takes. 

Since  if  man  prove  the  sole  existent  thing 

Where  these  combine,  whatever  their  degree, 

However  weak  the  might  or  will  or  love, 

So  they  be  found  there,  put  in  evidence, — 

He  is  as  surely  higher  in  the  scale 

Than  any  might  with  neither  love  nor  will, 

As  life,  apparent  in  the  poorest  midge, 

(When  the  faint  dust-speck  flits,  ye  guess  its  wing) 

Is  marvellous  beyond  dead  Atlas'  self — 

Given  to  the  nobler  midge  for  resting-place! 

Thus,  man  proves  best  and  highest — God,  in  fine, 

And  thus  the  victory  leads  but  to  defeat, 

The  gain  to  loss,  best  rise  to  the  worst  fall, 

His  life  becomes  impossible,  which  is  death. 

"But  if,  appealing  thence,  he  cower,  avouch 

He  is  mere  man,  and  in  humility 

Neither  may  know  God  nor  mistake  himself; 

I  point  to  the  immediate  consequence 

And  say,  by  such  confession  straight  he  falls 

Into  man's  place,  a  thing  nor  God  nor  beast, 

Made  to  know  that  he  can  know  and  not  more: 

Lower  than  God  who  knows  all  and  can  all, 

Higher  than  beasts  which  know  and  can  so  far 

As  each  beast's  limit,  perfect  to  an  end, 

Nor  conscious  that  they  know,  nor  craving  more; 

While  man  knows  partly  but  conceives  beside, 

Creeps  ever  on  from  fancies  to  the  fact, 

And  in  this  striving,  this  converting  air 

Into  a  solid  he  may  grasp  and  use, 

Finds  progress,  man's  distinctive  mark  alone, 

Not  God's,  and  not  the  beasts' :  God  is,  they  are, 

Man  partly  is  and  wholly  hopes  to  be. 

Such  progress  could  no  more  attend  his  soul 

Were  all  it  struggles  after  found  at  first 

And  guesses  changed  to  knowledge  absolute, 

Than  motion  wait  his  body,  were  all  else 


210  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Than  it  the  solid  earth  on  every  side, 

Where  now  through  space  he  moves  from  rest  to  rest. 

Man,  therefore,  thus  conditioned,  must  expect 

He  could  not,  what  he  knows  now,  know  at  first; 

What  he  considers  that  he  knows  to-day, 

Come  but  to-morrow,  he  will  find  misknown; 

Getting  increase  of  knowledge,  since  he  learns 

Because  he  lives,  which  is  to  be  a  man, 

Set  to  instruct  himself  by  his  past  self: 

First,  like  the  brute,  obliged  by  facts  to  learn, 

Next,  as  man  may,  obliged  by  his  own  mind, 

Bent,  habit,  nature,  knowledge  turned  to  law. 

God's  gift  was  that  man  should  conceive  of  truth 

And  yearn  to  gain  it,  catching  at  mistake, 

As  midway  help  till  he  reach  fact  indeed. 

The  statuary  ere  he  mould  a  shape 

Boasts  a  like  gift,  the  shape's  idea,  and  next 

The  aspiration  to  produce  the  same; 

So,  taking  clay,  he  calls  his  shape  thereout, 

Cries  ever  '  Now  I  have  the  thing  I  see ' : 

Yet  all  the  while  goes  changing  what  was  wrought, 

From  falsehood  like  the  truth,  to  truth  itself. 

How  were  it  had  he  cried  '  I  see  no  face, 

No  breast,  no  feet  i'  the  ineffectual  clay'? 

Rather  commend  him  that  he  clapped  his  hands, 

And  laughed  '  It  is  my  shape  and  lives  again ! ' 

Enjoyed  the  falsehood,  touched  it  on  to  truth, 

Until  yourselves  applaud  the  flesh  indeed 

In  what  is  still  flesh-imitating  clay. 

Right  in  you,  right  in  him,  such  way  be  man's! 

God  only  makes  the  live  shape  at  a  jet. 

Will  ye  renounce  this  pact  of  creatureship? 

The  pattern  on  the  Mount  subsists  no  more, 

Seemed  awhile,  then  returned  to  nothingness; 

But  copies,  Moses  strove  to  make  thereby, 

Serve  still  and  are  replaced  as  time  requires: 

By  these,  make  newest  vessels,  reach  the  type! 

If  ye  demur,  this  judgment  on  your  head, 

Never  to  reach  the  ultimate,  angels'  law, 

Indulging  every  instinct  of  the  soul 

There  where  law,  life,  joy,  impulse  are  one  thing! 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  211 

"Such  is  the  burthen  of  the  latest  time. 
I  have  survived  to  hear  it  with  my  ears, 
Answer  it  with  my  lips:  does  this  suffice? 
For  if  there  be  a  further  woe  than  such, 
Wherein  my  brothers  struggling  need  a  hand, 
So  long  as  any  pulse  is  left  in  mine, 
May  I  be  absent  even  longer  yet, 
Plucking  the  blind  ones  back  from  the  abyss, 
Though  I  should  tarry  a  new  hundred  years!" 

But  he  was  dead;  'twas  about  noon,  the  day 
Somewhat  declining:  we  five  buried  him 
That  eve,  and  then,  dividing,  went  five  ways, 
And  I,  disguised,  returned  to  Ephesus. 

By  this,  the  cave's  mouth  must  be  filled  with  sand. 

Valens  is  lost,  I  know  not  of  his  trace; 

The  Bactrian  was  but  a  wild  childish  man, 

And  could  not  write  nor  speak,  but  only  loved: 

So,  lest  the  memory  of  this  go  quite, 

Seeing  that  I  to-morrow  fight  the  beasts, 

I  tell  the  same  to  Phcebas,  whom  believe! 

For  many  look  again  to  find  that  face, 

Beloved  John's  to  whom  I  ministered, 

Somewhere  in  life  about  the  world;  they  err: 

Either  mistaking  what  was  darkly  spoke 

At  ending  of  his  book,  as  he  relates, 

Or  misconceiving  somewhat  of  this  speech 

Scattered  from  mouth  to  mouth,  as  I  suppose. 

Believe  ye  will  not  see  him  any  more 

About  the  world  with  his  divine  regard! 

For  all  was  as  I  say,  and  now  the  man 

Lies  as  he  lay  once,  breast  to  breast  with  God. 


[Cerinthus  read  and  mused;  one  added  this: 

"If  Christ,  as  thou  affirmest,  be  of  men 

Mere  man,  the  first  and  best  but  nothing  more, — 

Account  Him,  for  reward  of  what  He  was, 

Now  and  for  ever,  wretchedest  of  all. 

For  see;  Himself  conceived  of  life  as  love. 


212  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Conceived  of  love  as  what  must  enter  in, 

Fill  up,  make  one  with  His  each  soul  He  loved: 

Thus  much  for  man's  joy,  all  men's  joy  for  Him. 

Well,  He  is  gone,  thou  sayest,  to  fit  reward. 

But  by  this  time  are  many  souls  set  free, 

And  very  many  still  retained  alive: 

Nay,  should  His  coming  be  delayed  awhile, 

Say,  ten  years  longer  (twelve  years,  some  compute) 

See  if,  for  every  finger  of  thy  hands, 

There  be  not  found,  that  day  the  world  shall  end, 

Hundreds  of  souls,  each  holding  by  Christ's  word 

That  He  will  grow  incorporate  with  all, 

With  me  as  Pamphylax,  with  him  as  John, 

Groom  for  each  bride!     Can  a  mere  man  do  this? 

Yet  Christ  saith,  this  He  lived  and  died  to  do. 

Call  Christ,  then,  the  illimitable  God, 

Or  lost!" 

But  'twas  Cerinthus  that  is  lost.] 
(1864.) 

CALIBAN  UPON  SETEBOS;1  OR,   NATURAL 
THEOLOGY  IN  THE  ISLAND 

"Thou  thoughtest  that  I  was  altogether  such  a  one  as  thyself."8 

['Will  sprawl,  now  that  the  heat  of  day  is  best, 
Flat  on  his  belly  in  the  pit's  much  mire, 
With  elbows  wide,  fists  clenched  to  prop  his  chin. 
And,  while  he  kicks  both  feet  in  the  cool  slush, 
And  feels  about  his  spine  small  eft-things  course, 
Run  in  and  out  each  arm,  and  make  him  laugh: 
And  while  above  his  head  a  pompion-plant, 
Coating  the  cave-top  as  a  brow  its  eye, 
Creeps  down  to  touch  and  tickle  hair  and  beard, 
And  now  a  flower  drops  with  a  bee  inside, 
And  now  a  fruit  to  snap  at,  catch  and  crunch, — • 
He  looks  out  o'er  yon  sea  which  sunbeams  cross 

1  In  the  Dramatis  Pcrsonce  of  Shakespeare's  The  Tempest,  Caliban 
is  described  as  "a  savage  and  deformed  slave."  Setebos  is  referred 
to  as  the  god  his  mother  worships. 

'Psalm  50:  21. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  213 

And  recross  till  they  weave  a  spider-web 
(Meshes  of  fire,  some  great  fish  breaks  at  times) 
And  talks  to  his  own  self,  howe'er  he  please, 
Touching  that  other,  whom  his  dam  called  God. 
Because  to  talk  about  Him,  vexes — ha, 
Could  He  but  know!  and  time  to  vex  is  now, 
When  talk  is  safer  than  in  winter-time. 
Moreover  Prosper3  and  Miranda3  sleep 
In  confidence  he  drudges  at  their  task, 
And  it  is  good  to  cheat  the  pair,  and  gibe, 
Letting  the  rank  tongue  blossom  into  speech.] 

Setebos,  Setebos,  and  Setebos! 

'Thinketh,  He  dwelleth  i'  the  cold  o'  the  moon. 

Thinketh  He  made  it,  with  the  sun  to  match, 
But  not  the  stars;  the  stars  came  otherwise; 
Only  made  clouds,  winds,  meteors,  such  as  that: 
Also  this  isle,  what  lives  and  grows  thereon, 
And  snaky  sea  which  rounds  and  ends  the  same, 

'Thinketh,  it  came  of  being  ill  at  ease: 

He  hated  that  He  cannot  change  His  cold, 

Nor  cure  its  ache.     'Hath  spied  an  icy  fish 

That  longed  to  'scape  the  rock-stream  where  she  lived, 

And  thaw  herself  within  the  luke  warm  brine 

0'  the  lazy  sea  her  stream  thrusts  far  amid, 

A  crystal  spike  'twixt  two  warm  walls  of  wave; 

Only,  she  ever  sickened,  found  repulse 

At  the  other  kind  of  water,  not  her  life, 

(Green-dense  and  dim-delicious,  bred  o'  the  sun) 

Flounced  back  from  bliss  she  was  not  born  to  breathe, 

And  in  her  old  bounds  buried  her  despair, 

Hating  and  loving  warmth  alike:  so  He. 

'Thinketh,  He  made  thereat  the  sun,  this  isle, 

Trees  and  the  fowls  here,  beast  and  creeping  thing. 

Yon  otter,  sleek- wet,  black,  lithe  as  a  leech; 

Yon  auk,  one  fire-eye  in  a  ball  of  foam, 

That  floats  and  feeds;  a  certain  badger  brown 

He  hath  watched  hunt  with  that  slant  white-wedge  eye 

«  Characters  in  The  Tempest. 


214  ROBERT  BROWNING 

By  moonlight;  and  the  pie  with  the  long  tongue 

That  pricks  deep  into  oakwarts  for  a  worm, 

And  says  a  plain  word  when  she  finds  her  prize, 

But  will  not  eat  the  ants;  the  ants  themselves 

That  build  a  wall  of  seeds  and  settled  stalks 

About  their  hole — He  made  all  these  and  more 

Made  all  we  see,  and  us,  in  spite:  how  else? 

He  could  not,  Himself,  make  a  second  self 

To  be  His  mate;  as  well  have  made  Himself: 

He  would  not  make  what  he  mislikes  or  slights, 

An  eyesore  to  Him,  or  not  worth  His  pains: 

But  did,  in  envy,  listlessness  or  sport, 

Make  what  Himself  would  fain,  in  a  manner,  be — 

Weaker  in  most  points,  stronger  in  a  few, 

Worthy,  and  yet  mere  playthings  all  the  while, 

Things  He  admires  and  mocks  too, — that  is  it. 

Because,  so  brave,  so  better  though  they  be, 

It  nothing  skills  if  He  begin  to  plague. 

Look  now,  I  melt  a  gourd-fruit  into  mash, 

Add  honeycomb  and  pods,  I  have  perceived, 

Which  bite  like  finches  when  they  bill  and  kiss, — 

Then,  when  froth  rises  bladdery,  drink  up  all, 

Quick,  quick,  till  maggots  scamper  through  my  brain; 

Last,  throw  me  on  my  back  i'  the  seeded  thyme, 

And  wanton,  wishing  I  were  born  a  bird. 

Put  case,  unable  to  be  what  I  wish, 

I  yet  could  make  a  live  bird  out  of  clay: 

Would  not  I  take  clay,  pinch  my  Caliban 

Able  to  fly? — for,  there,  see,  he  hath  wings, 

And  great  comb  like  the  hoopoe's  to  admire, 

And  there,  a  sting  to  do  his  foes  offence, 

There,  and  I  will  that  he  begin  to  live, 

Fly  to  yon  rock-top,  nip  me  off  the  horns 

Of  grigs  high  up  that  make  the  merry  din, 

Saucy  through  their  veined  wings,  and  mind  me  not. 

In  which  feat,  if  his  leg  snapped,  brittle  clay, 

And  he  lay  stupid-like, — why,  I  should  laugh; 

And  if  he,  spying  me,  should  fall  to  weep, 

Beseech  me  to  be  good,  repair  his  wrong, 

Bid  his  poor  leg  smart  less  or  grow  again, — 

Well,  as  the  chance  were,  this  might  take  or  else 

Not  take  my  fancy:  I  might  hear  his  cry, 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  215 

And  give  the  mankin  three  sound  legs  for  one, 
Or  pluck  the  other  off,  leave  him  like  an  egg, 
And  lessoned  he  was  mine  and  merely  clay. 
Were  this  no  pleasure,  lying  in  the  thyme, 
Drinking  the  mash,  with  brain  become  alive, 
Making  and  marring  clay  at  will?    So  He. 

'Thinketh,  such  shows  nor  right  nor  wrong  in  Him, 
Nor  kind,  nor  cruel:  He  is  strong  and  Lord. 
'Am  strong  myself  compared  to  yonder  crabs 
That  march  now  from  the  mountain  to  the  sea; 
'Let  twenty  pass,  and  stone  the  twenty-first, 
Loving  not,  hating  not,  just  choosing  so. 
'Say,  the  first  straggler  that  boasts  purple  spota 
Shall  join  the  file,  one  pincer  twisted  off; 
'Say,  this  bruised  fellow  shall  receive  a  worm, 
And  two  worms  he  whose  nippers  end  in  red; 
As  it  likes  me  each  time,  I  do:  so  He. 

Well  then,  'supposeth  He  is  good  i '  the  main, 

Placable  if  His  mind  and  ways  were  guessed, 

But  rougher  than  His  handiwork,  be  sure! 

Oh,  He  hath  made  things  worthier  than  Himself, 

And  envieth  that,  so  helped,  such  things  do  more 

Than  He  who  made  them!    What  consoles  but  this? 

That  they,  unless  through  Him,  do  nought  at  all, 

And  must  submit:  what  other  use  in  things? 

'Hath  cut  a  pipe  of  pithless  elder  joint 

That,  blown  through,  gives  exact  the  scream  o'  the  jay 

When  from  her  wing  you  twitch  the  feathers  blue: 

Sound  this,  and  little  birds  that  hate  the  jay 

Flock  within  stone's  throw,  glad  their  foe  is  hurt: 

Put  case  such  pipe  could  prattle  and  boast  forsooth 

"I  catch  the  birds,  I  am  the  crafty  thing, 

I  make  the  cry  my  maker  cannot  make 

With  his  great  round  mouth;  he  must  blow  through 

mine!" 
Would  not  I  smash  it  with  my  foot?    So  He. 

But  wherefore  rough,  why  cold  and  ill  at  ease? 
Aha,  that  is  a  question!    Ask,  for  that, 


216  ROBERT  BROWNING 

What  knows, — the  something  over  Setebos 

That  made  Him,  or  He,  may  be,  found  and  fought, 

Worsted,  drove  off  and  did  to  nothing,  perchance. 

There  may  be  something  quiet  o'er  His  head, 

Out  of  His  reach,  that  feels  nor  joy  nor  grief, 

Since  both  derive  from  weakness  in  some  way. 

I  joy  because  the  quails  come;  would  not  joy 

Could  I  bring  quails  here  when  I  have  a  mind: 

This  Quiet,  all  it  hath  a  mind  to,  doth. 

'Esteemeth  stars  the  outposts  of  its  couch, 

But  never  spends  much  thought  nor  care  that  way. 

It  may  look  up,  work  up, — the  worse  for  those 

It  works  on!     'Careth  but  for  Setebos 

The  many-handed  as  a  cuttle-fish, 

Who,  making  Himself  feared  through  what  He  does, 

Looks  up,  first,  and  perceives  he  cannot  soar 

To  what  is  quiet  and  hath  happy  life; 

Next  looks  down  here,  and  out  of  very  spite 

Makes  this  a  bauble-world  to  ape  yon  real, 

These  good  things  to  match  those  as  hips  do  grapes. 

'Tis  solace  making  baubles,  ay,  and  sport. 

Himself  peeped  late,  eyed  Prosper  at  his  books 

Careless  and  lofty,  lord  now  of  the  isle: 

Vexed,  'stiched  a  book  of  broad  leaves,  arrow-shaped, 

Wrote  thereon,  he  knows  what,  prodigious  words; 

Has  peeled  a  wand  and  called  it  by  a  name; 

Weareth  at  whiles  for  an  enchanter's  robe 

The  eyed  skin  of  a  supple  oncelot; 

And  hath  an  ounce  sleeker  than  youngling  mole, 

A  four-legged  serpent  he  makes  cower  and  couch, 

Now  snarl,  now  hold  its  breath  and  mind  his  eye, 

And  saith  she  is  Miranda  and  my  wife: 

'Keeps  for  his  Ariel  a  tall  pouch-bill  crane 

He  bids  go  wade  for  fish  and  straight  disgorge; 

Also  a  sea-beast,  lumpish,  which  he  snared, 

Blinded  the  eyes  of,  and  brought  somewhat  tame, 

And  split  its  toe-webs,  and  now  pens  the  drudge 

In  a  hole  o'  the  rock  and  calls  him  Caliban; 

A  bitter  heart  that  bides  its  time  and  bites. 

'Plays  thus  at  being  Prosper  in  a  way, 

Taketh  his  mirth  with  make-believes:  so  He. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  217 

His  dam  held  that  the  Quiet  made  all  things 

Which  Setebos  vexed  only:  'holds  not  so. 

Who  made  them  weak,  meant  weakness  He  might  vex. 

Had  He  meant  other,  while  His  hand  was  in, 

Why  not  make  horny  eyes  no  thorn  could  prick,     • 

Or  plate  my  scalp  with  bone  against  the  snow, 

Or  overscale  my  flesh  'neath  joint  and  joint, 

Like  an  ore's  armour?    Ay, — so  spoil  His  sport  I 

He  is  the  One  now:  only  He  doth  all. 

'Saith,  He  may  like,  perchance,  what  profits  Him. 

Ay,  himself  loves  what  does  him  good;  but  why? 

'Gets  good  no  otherwise.    This  blinded  beast 

Loves  whoso  places  flesh-meat  on  his  nose, 

But,  had  he  eyes,  would  want  no  help,  but  hate 

Or  love,  just  as  it  liked  him:  He  hath  eyes. 

Also  it  pleaseth  Setebos  to  work, 

Use  all  His  hands,  and  exercise  much  craft, 

By  no  means  for  the  love  of  what  is  worked. 

'Tasteth,  himself,  no  finer  good  i'  the  world 

When  all  goes  right,  in  this  safe  summer-time, 

And  he  wants  little,  hungers,  aches  not  much, 

Than  trying  what  to  do  with  wit  and  strength. 

'Falls  to  make  something:  'piled  yon  pile  of  turfs, 

And  squared  and  stuck  there  squares  of  soft  white  chalk, 

And,  with  a  fish-tooth,  scratched  a  moon  on  each, 

And  set  up  endwise  certain  spikes  of  tree, 

And  crowned  the  whole  with  a  sloth's  skull  a-top, 

Found  dead  i'  the  woods,  too  hard  for  one  to  kill. 

No  use  at  all  i'  the  work,  for  work's  sole  sake; 

'Shall  some  day  knock  it  down  again:  so  He. 

'Saith  He  is  terrible:  watch  His  feats  in  proof! 

One  hurricane  will  spoil  six  good  months'  hope. 

He  hath  a  spite  against  me,  that  I  know, 

Just  as  He  favours  Prosper,  who  knows  why? 

So  it  is,  all  the  same,  as  well  I  find. 

'Wove  wattles  half  the  winter,  fenced  them  firm 

With  stone  and  stake  to  stop  she-tortoises 

Crawling  to  lay  their  eggs  here:  well,  one  wave, 

Feeling  the  foot  of  Him  upon  its  neck, 

Gaped  as  a  snake  does,  lolled  out  its  large  tongue, 

And  licked  the  whole  labour  flat;  so  much  for  spite. 


218  ROBERT  BROWNING 

'Saw  a  ball  flame  down  late  (yonder  it  lies) 

Where,  half  an  hour  before,  I  slept  i'  the  shade: 

Often  they  scatter  sparkles :  there  is  force ! 

'Dug  up  a  newt  He  may  have  envied  once 

And  turned  to  stone,  shut  up  inside  a  stone. 

Please  Him  and  hinder  this? — What  Prosper  does? 

Aha,  if  He  would  tell  me  how!    Not  He! 

There  is  the  sport:  discover  how  or  die! 

All  need  not  die,  for  of  the  things  o '  the  isle 

Some  flee  afar,  some  dive,  some  run  up  trees; 

Those  at  His  mercy, — why,  they  please  Him  most 

When   .    .    .    when  .    .    .   well,  never  try  the  same  way 

twice! 

Repeat  what  act  has  pleased,  He  may  grow  wroth. 
You  must  not  know  His  ways,  and  play  Him  off, 
Sure  of  the  issue.     'Doth  the  like  himself: 
'Spareth  a  squirrel  that  it  nothing  fears 
But  steals  the  nut  from  underneath  my  thumb, 
And  when  I  threat,  bites  stoutly  in  defence: 
'Spareth  an  urchin  that  contrariwise, 
Curls  up  into  a  ball,  pretending  death 
For  fright  at  my  approach:  the  two  ways  please. 
But  what  would  move  my  choler  more  than  this, 
That  either  creature  counted  on  its  life 
To-morrow  and  next  day  and  all  days  to  come, 
Saying,  forsooth,  in  the  inmost  of  its  heart, 
''Because  he  did  so  yesterday  with  me, 
And  otherwise  with  such  another  brute. 
So  must  he  do  henceforth  and  always." — Ay? 
Would  teach  the  reasoning  couple  what  "must"  means! 
'Doth  as  he  likes,  or  wherefore  Lord?     So  He. 

'Conceiveth  all  things  will  continue  thus, 
And  we  shall  have  to  live  in  fear  of  Him 
So  long  as  He  lives,  keeps  His  strength :  no  change, 
If  He  have  done  His  best,  make  no  new  world 
To  please  Him  more,  so  leave  off  watching  this, — 
If  He  surprise  not  even  the  Quiet's  self 
Some  strange  day, — or,  suppose,  grow  into  it 
As  grubs  grow  butterflies:  else,  here  are  we, 
And  there  is  He,  and  nowhere  help  at  all. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  219 

'  Belie veth  with  the  life,  the  pain  shall  stop. 
His  dam  held  different,  that  after  death 
He  both  plagued  enemies  and  feasted  friends: 
Idly!     He  doth  His  worst  in  this  our  life, 
Giving  just  respite  lest  we  die  through  pain, 
Saving  last  pain  for  worst, — with  which,  an  end. 
Meanwhile,  the  best  way  to  escape  His  ire 
Is,  not  to  seem  too  happy.     'Sees,  himself, 
Yonder  two  flies,  with  purple  films  and  pink, 
Bask  on  the  pompion-bell  above:  kills  both. 
'Sees  two  black  painful  beetles  roll  their  ball 
On  head  and  tail  as  if  to  save  their  lives: 
Moves  them  the  stick  away  they  strive  to  clear. 

Even  so,  'would  have  Him  misconceive,  suppose 

This  Caliban  strives  hard  and  ails  no  less, 

And  always,  above  all  else,  envies  Him; 

Wherefore  he  mainly  dances  on  dark  nights, 

Moans  in  the  sun,  gets  under  holes  to  laugh, 

And  never  speaks  his  mind  save  housed  as  now: 

Outside,  'groans,  curses.     If  He  caught  me  here, 

O'erheard  this  speech,  and  asked  "What  chucklest  at?" 

'Would,  to  appease  Him,  cut  a  finger  off, 

Or  of  my  three  kid  yearlings  burn  the  best, 

Or  let  the  toothsome  apples  rot  on  tree, 

Or  push  my  tame  beast  for  the  ore  to  taste: 

While  myself  lit  a  fire,  and  made  a  song 

And  sung  it,  "What  I  hate,  be  consecrate 

To  celebrate  Thee  and  Thy  state,  no  mate 

For  Thee;  what  see  for  envy  in  poor  me?" 

Hoping  the  while,  since  evils  sometimes  mend, 

Warts  rub  away  and  sores  are  cured  with  slime, 

That  some  strange  day,  will  either  the  Quiet  catch 

And  conquer  Setebos,  or  likelier  He 

Decrepit  may  doze,  doze,  as  good  as  die. 


[What,  what?    A  curtain  o'er  the  world  at  once! 
Crickets  stop  hissing;  not  a  bird — or,  yes, 
There  scuds  His  raven  that  has  told  Him  all! 
It  was  fool's  play,  this  prattling!     Ha!     The  wind 


220  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Shoulders  the  pillared  dust,  death's  house  o'  the  move, 

And  fast  invading  fires  begin!    White  blaze — 

A  tree's  head  snaps — and  there,  there,  there,  there,  there, 

His  thunder  follows!     Fool  to  gibe  at  Him! 

Lo!     'Lieth  flat  and  loveth  Setebos! 

'Maketh  his  teeth  meet  through  his  upper  lip, 

Will  let  those  quails  fly,  will  not  eat  this  month 

One  little  mess  of  whelks,  so  he  may  'scape!] 

(1864.) 


CONFESSIONS 

What  is  the  buzzing  in  my  ears? 

"Now  that  I  come  to  die, 
Do  I  view  the  world  as  a  vale  of  tears?" 

Ah,  reverend  sir,  not  I! 

What  I  viewed  there  once,  what  I  view  again 

Where  the  physic  bottles  stand 
On  the  table's  edge, — is  a  suburb  lane, 

WTith  a  wall  to  my  bedside  hand. 

That  lane  sloped,  much  as  the  bottles  do, 

From  a  house  you  could  descry 
O'er  the  garden- wall :  is  the  curtain  blue 

Or  green  to  a  healthy  eye? 

To  mine,  it  serves  for  the  old  June  weather 

Blue  above  lane  and  wall; 
And  that  farthest  bottle  labelled  "Ether" 

Is  the  house  o'ertopping  all. 

At  a  terrace,  somewhere  near  the  stopper, 
There  watched  for  me,  one  June, 

A  girl :  I  know,  sir,  it's  improper, 
My  poor  mind's  out  of  tune. 

Only,  there  was  a  way   .    .    .  you  crept 

Close  by  the  side  to  dodge 
Eyes  in  the  house,  two  eyes  except: 

They  styled  their  house  "The  Lodge." 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  221 

What  right  had  a  lounger  up  their  lane? 

But,  by  creeping  very  close, 
With  the  good  wall's  help, — their  eyes  might  strain 

And  stretch  themselves  to  Oes, 

Yet  never  catch  her  and  me  together, 

As  she  left  the  attic,  there, 
By  the  rim  of  the  bottle  labelled  "Ether," 

And  stole  from  stair  to  stair, 

And  stood  by  the  rose-wreathed  gate.     Alas, 

We  loved,  sir — used  to  meet: 
How  sad  and  bad  and  mad  it  was — 

But  then,  how  it  was  sweet  I 

(1864.) 

MAY  AND  DEATH 

I  wish  that  when  you  died  last  May, 
Charles,  there  had  died  along  with  you 

Three  parts  of  spring's  delightful  things; 
Ay,  and,  for  me,  the  fourth  part  too. 

A  foolish  thought,  and  worse,  perhaps! 

There  must  be  many  a  pair  of  friends 
Who,  arm  in  arm,  deserve  the  warm 

Moon-births  and  the  long  evening-ends. 

So,  for  their  sake,  be  May  still  May! 

Let  their  new  time,  as  mine  of  old, 
Do  all  it  did  for  me:  I  bid 

Sweet  sights  and  sounds  throng  manifold. 

Only,  one  little  sight,  one  plant, 

Woods  have  in  May,  that  starts  up  green 

Save  a  sole  streak  which,  so  to  speak, 

Is  spring's  blood,  spilt  its  leaves  between, — 

That,  they  might  spare;  a  certain  wood 

Might  miss  the  plant;  their  loss  were  small: 

But  I, — whene'er  the  leaf  grows  there, 
Its  drop  comes  from  my  heart,  that's  all. 

(1864.) 


222  ROBERT  BROWNING 

PROSPICE* 

Fear  death? — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 

The  mist  hi  my  face, 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm, 

The  post  of  the  foe ; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible  form, 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go: 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  attained, 

And  the  barriers  fall, 
Through  a  battle's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon  be  gained, 

The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so — one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes,  and  forbore, 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No!  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my  peers 

The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold. 
For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave, 

The  black  minute's  at  end, 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that  rave, 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend,, 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out  of  pain, 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
0  thou  soul  of  my  soul!  I  shall  clasp  thee  again, 

And  with  God  be  the  rest! 

(1864.) 

YOUTH  AND  ART 

It  once  might  have  been,  once  only: 

We  lodged  in  a  street  together, 
You,  a  sparrow  on  the  housetop  lonely, 

I,  a  lone  she-bird  of  his  feather. 

1  Look  forward. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  223 


Your  trade  was  with  sticks  and  clay, 

You  thumbed,  thrust,  patted  and  polished, 

Then  laughed  "They  will  see  some  day 
Smith  made,  and  Gibson  demolished." 

My  business  was  song,  song,  song; 

I  chirped,  cheeped,  trilled  and  twittered, 
"Kate  Brown's  on  the  boards  ere  long, 

And  Grisi's  existence  embittered!" 

I  earned  no  more  by  a  warble 
Than  you  by  a  sketch  in  plaster; 

You  wanted  a  piece  of  marble, 
I  needed  a  music  master. 

We  studied  hard  in  our  styles, 

Chipped  each  at  a  crust  like  Hindoos, 

For  air,  looked  out  on  the  tiles, 

For  fun,  watched  each  other's  windows. 

You  lounged,  like  a  boy  of  the  South, 
Cap  and  blouse — nay,  a  bit  of  beard  too; 

Or  you  got  it,  rubbing  your  mouth 
With  fingers  the  clay  adhered  to. 

And  I — soon  managed  to  find 

Weak  points  in  the  flower-fence  facing, 
Was  forced  to  put  up  a  blind 

And  be  safe  in  my  corset-lacing. 

No  harm!     It  was  not  my  fault 

If  you  never  turned  your  eyes'  tail  up 

As  I  shook  upon  E  in  alt., 

Or  ran  the  chromatic  scale  up: 

For  spring  bade  the  sparrows  pair, 
And  the  boys  and  girls  gave  guesses, 

And  stalls  in  our  street  looked  rare 
With  bulrush  and  water  cresses. 

Why  did  not  you  pinch  a  flower 

In  a  pellet  of  clay  and  fling  it? 
Why  did  not  I  put  a  power 

Of  thanks  in  a  look,  or  sing  it? 


224  ROBERT  BROWNING 

I  did  look,  sharp  as  a  lynx, 

(And  yet  the  memory  rankles,) 
When  models  arrived,  some  minx 

Tripped  up-stairs,  she  and  her  ankles. 

But  I  think  I  gave  you  as  good ! 

"That  foreign  fellow, — who  can  know 
How  she  pays,  in  a  playful  mood, 

For  his  tuning  her  that  piano?" 

Could  you  say  so,  and  never  say, 

"Suppose  we  join  hands  and  fortunes, 

And  I  fetch  her  from  over  the  way, 

Her,  piano,  and  long  tunes  and  short  tunes' '? 

No,  no :  you  would  not  be  rash, 

Nor  I  rasher  and  something  over: 
You've  to  settle  yet  Gibson's  hash, 

And  Grisi  yet  lives  in  clover. 

But  you  meet  the  Prince  at  the  Board, 

I'm  queen  myself  at  bals-pare,1 
I've  married  a  rich  old  lord, 

And  you're  dubbed  knight  and  an  R.  A.2 

Each  life  unfulfilled,  you  see; 

It  hangs  still,  patchy  and  scrappy: 
We  have  not  sighed  deep,  laughed  free, 

Starved,  feasted,  despaired, — been  happy. 

And  nobody  calls  you  a  dunce, 

And  people  suppose  me  clever: 
This  could  but  have  happened  once, 

And  we  missed  it,  lost  it  forever. 

(1864.) 

1  Fancy  dress  balls. 

2  Member  of  the  Royal  Academy. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  225 

A  FACE 

If  one  could  have  that  little  head  of  hers 

Painted  upon  a  blackground  of  pale  gold, 
Such  as  the  Tuscan's  early  art  prefers! 

No  shade  encroaching  on  the  matchless  mould 
Of  those  two  lips,  which  should  be  opening  soft 

In  the  pure  profile;  not  as  when  she  laughs, 
For  that  spoils  all:  but  rather  as  if  aloft 

Yon  hyacinth,  she  loves  so,  leaned  its  staff's 
Burthen  of  honey-coloured  buds  to  kiss 
And  capture  'twixt  the  lips  apart  for  this. 
Then  her  lithe  neck,  three  fingers  might  surround, 
How  it  should  waver  on  the  pale  gold  ground 
Up  to  the  fruit-shaped,  perfect  chin  it  lifts! 
I  know,  Correggio1  loves  to  mass,  in  rifts 
Of  heaven,  his  angel  faces,  orb  on  orb 
Breaking  its  outline,  burning  shades  absorb: 
But  these  are  only  massed  there,  I  should  think, 
Waiting  to  see  some  wonder  momently 
Grow  out,  stand  full,  fade  slow  against  the  sky 
(That's  the  pale  ground  you'd  see  this  sweet  face  by), 
All  heaven,  meanwhile,  condensed  into  one  eye 
Which  fears  to  lose  the  wonder,  should  it  wink. 

(1864.) 

APPARENT  FAILURE 

"We  shall  soon  lose  a  celebrated  building." — Paris  Newspaper 

Xo,  for  I'll  save  it!     Seven  years  since. 

I  passed  through  Paris,  stopped  a  day 
To  see  the  baptism  of  your  Prince;2 

Saw,  made  my  bow,  and  went  my  way: 
Walking  the  heat  and  headache  off, 

I  took  the  Seine-side,  you  surmise, 
Thought  of  the  Congress,3  Gortschakoff, 

1  Name  of  the  birthplace  of  Antonio  Allegri  (1494-1534),   celebrated 
Italian  painter,  by  which  he  is  commonly  called. 

2  Louis  Napoleon,  son  of  Napoleon  III,  born  1856. 

3  A  Congress  of  European  powers,  which  met  in  Paris  1852-1859 
to  consider  the  unity  and  freedom  of  Italy.     Gortschakoff  represented 
Russia;  Cavour,  Italy;  and  Buol,  Austria. 


226  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Cavour's  appeal  and  Buol's  replies, 
So  sauntered  till — what  met  my  eyes? 

Only  the  Doric  little  Morgue! 

The  dead-house  where  you  show  your  drowned : 
Petrarch's  Vaucluse1  makes  proud  the  Sorgue, 

Your  Morgue  has  made  the  Seine  renowned. 
One  pays  one's  debt  in  such  a  case; 

I  plucked  up  heart  and  entered, — stalked, 
Keeping  a  tolerable  face 

Compared  with  some  whose  cheeks  were  chalked: 
Let  them!     No  Briton's  to  be  baulked! 

First  came  the  silent  gazers;  next, 

A  screen  of  glass,  we're  thankful  for; 
Last,  the  sight's  self,  the  sermon's  text, 

The  three  men  who  did  most  abhor 
Their  life  in  Paris  yesterday, 

So  killed  themselves:  and  now,  enthroned 
Each  on  his  copper  couch,  they  lay 

Fronting  me,  waiting  to  be  owned. 
I  thought,  and  think,  their  sin's  atoned. 

Poor  men,  God  made,  and  all  for  that! 

The  reverence  struck  me;  o'er  each  head 
Religiously  was  hung  its  hat, 

Each  coat  dripped  by  the  owner's  bed, 
Sacred  from  touch:  each  had  his  berth, 

His  bounds,  his  proper  place  of  rest, 
Who  last  night  tenanted  on  earth 

Some  arch,  where  twelve  such  slept  abreast, — 
Unless  the  plain  asphalt  seemed  best. 

How  did  it  happen,  my  poor  boy? 

You  wanted  to  be  Buonaparte 
And  have  the  Tuileries2  for  toy, 

And  could  not,  so  it  broke  your  heart? 

1  The  famous  Italian  poet  Petrarch  (1304-1374)  at  one  time  lived 
in  the  village  Vaucluse,  where  the  river  Sorgue  has  its  source. 
1  The  imperial  palace. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  227 

You,  old  one  by  his  side,  I  judge, 

Were,  red  as  blood,  a  socialist, 
A  leveller!     Does  the  Empire  grudge 

You've  gained  what  no  Republic  missed? 
Be  quiet,  and  unclench  your  fist! 

And  this — why,  he  was  red  in  vain, 

Or  black, — poor  fellow  that  is  blue! 
What  fancy  was  it  turned  your  brain? 

Oh,  women  were  the  prize  for  you ! 
Money  gets  women,  cards  and  dice 

Get  money,  and  ill-luck  gets  just 
The  copper  couch  and  one  clear  nice 

Cool  squirt  of  water  o'er  your  bust, 
The  right  thing  to  extinguish  lust! 

It's  wiser  being  good  than  bad; 

It's  safer  being  meek  than  fierce: 
It's  fitter  being  sane  than  mad. 

My  own  hope  is,  a  sun  will  pierce 
The  thickest  cloud  earth  ever  stretched; 

That,  after  Last,  returns  the  First, 
Though  a  wide  compass  round  be  fetched; 

That  what  began  best,  can't  end  worst, 
Nor  what  God  blessed  once,  prove  accurst. 

(1864.) 


PROLOGUE  TO  FIFINE  AT  THE  FAIR 

AMPHIBIAN 

The  fancy  I  had  to-day, 

Fancy  which  turned  a  fear! 
I  swam  far  out  in  the  bay, 

Since  waves  laughed  warm  and  clear. 

I  lay  and  looked  at  the  sun, 

The  noon-sun  looked  at  me: 
Between  us  two,  no  one 

Live  creature,  that  I  could  see. 


228  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Yes!    There  came  floating  by 
Me,  who  lay  floating  too, 

Such  a  strange  butterfly! 
Creature  as  dear  as  new: 

Because  the  membraned  wings 

So  wonderful,  so  wide, 
So  sun-suffused,  were  things 

Like  soul  and  naught  beside. 

A  handbreadth  overhead! 

All  of  the  sea  my  own, 
It  owned  the  sky  instead; 

Both  of  us  were  alone. 

I  never  shall  join  its  flight, 
For,  naught  buoys  flesh  in  air. 

If  it  touch  the  sea — good  night! 
Death  sure  and  swift  waits  there. 

Can  the  insect  feel  the  better 
For  watching  the  uncouth  play 

Of  limbs  that  slip  the  fetter, 
Pretend  as  they  were  not  clay? 

Undoubtedly  I  rejoice 

That  the  air  comports  so  well 

With  a  creature  which  had  the  choice 
Of  the  land  once.     Who  can  tell? 

What  if  a  certain  soul 

Which  early  slipped  its  sheath, 

And  has  for  its  home  the  whole 
Of  heaven,  thus  look  beneath, 

Thus  watch  one  who,  in  the  world, 
Both  lives  and  likes  life's  way, 

Nor  wishes  the  wings  unfurled 
That  sleep  in  the  worm,  they  say? 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  229 

But  sometimes  when  the  weather 

Is  blue,  and  warm  waves  tempt 
To  free  one's  self  of  tether, 

And  try  a  life  exempt 

From  wordly  noise  and  dust, 

In  the  sphere  which  overbrims 
With  passion  and  thought, — why,  just 

Unable  to  fly,  one  swims! 

By  passion  and  thought  upborne, 
One  smiles  to  one's  self — "They  fare 

Scarce  better,  they  need  not  scorn 
Our  sea,  who  live  in  the  air!" 

Emancipate  through  passion 

And  thought,  with  sea  for  sky, 
We  substitute,  in  a  fashion, 

For  heaven — poetry : 

Which  sea,  to  all  intent, 

Gives  flesh  such  noon-disport 
As  a  finer  element 

Affords  the  spirit-sort. 

Whatever  they  are,  we  seem: 

Imagine  the  thing  they  know; 
All  deeds  they  do,  we  dream; 

Can  heaven  be  else  but  so? 

And  meantime,  yonder  streak 

Meets  the  horizon's  verge; 
That  is  the  land,  to  seek 

If  we  tire  or  dread  the  surge: 

Land  the  solid  and  safe — 

To  welcome  again  (confess!) 
When,  high  and  dry,  we  chafe 

The  body,  and  don  the  dress. 

Does  she  look,  pity,  wonder 

At  one  who  mimics  flight, 
Swims — heaven  above,  sea  under, 

Yet  always  earth  in  sight? 

(1872.) 


230  ROBERT  BROWNING 

EPILOGUE  TO  FIFINE  AT  THE  FAIR 

THE   HOUSEHOLDER 

Savage  I  was  sitting  in  my  house,  late,  lone: 

Dreary,  weary  with  the  long  day's  work: 
Head  of  me,  heart  of  me,  stupid  as  a  stone : 

Tongue-tied  now,  now  blaspheming  like  a  Turk; 
When,  in  a  moment,  just  a  knock,  call,  cry, 

Half  a  pang  and  all  a  rapture,  there  again  were  we! — 
"What,  and  is  it  really  you  again?"  quoth  I: 

"I  again,  what  else  did  you  expect?"  quoth  She. 

"Never  mind,  hie  away  from  this  old  house — 

Every  crumbling  brick  embrowned  with  sin  and  shame! 
Quick,  in  its  corners  ere  certain  shapes  arouse! 

Let  them — every  devil  of  the  night — lay  claim, 
Make  and  mend,  or  rap  and  rend,  for  me!    Good-by! 

God  be  their  guard  from  disturbance  at  their  glee, 
Till,  crash,  comes  down  the  carcass  in  a  heap!"  quoth  I: 

"Nay,  but  there's  a  decency  required!"  quoth  She. 

"Ah,  but  if  you  knew  how  time  has  dragged,  days,  nights! 

All  the  neighbor-talk  with  man  and  maid — such  men ! 
All  the  fuss  and  trouble  of  street-sounds,  window-sights : 

All  the  worry  of  flapping  door  and  echoing  roof;  and  then, 
All  the  fancies  .  .  .  Who  were  they  had  leave,  dared  try 

Darker  arts  that  almost  struck  despair  in  me? 
If  you  knew  but  how  I  dwelt  down  here!"  quoth  I: 

"And  was  I  so  better  off  up  there?"  quoth  She. 

"Help  and  get  it  over!    Reunited  to  his  wife 

(How  draw  up  the  paper  lets  the  parish  people  know?) 
Lies  M.  or  N.,  departed  from  this  life, 

Day  the  this  or  that,  month  and  year  the  so  and  so. 
What  i'  the  way  of  final  flourish?     Prose,  verse?     Try! 

Affliction  sore  long  time  he  bore,  or,  what  is  it  to  be? 
Till  God  did  please  to  grant  him  ease.     Do  end! "  quoth  I : 

"I  end  with — Love  is  all,  and  Death  is  nought!"  quoth  She. 

(1872). 


POEMS  AND   PLAYS  231 

HOUSE 

Shall  I  sonnet-sing  you  about  myself? 

Do  I  live  in  a  house  you  would  like  to  see? 
Is  it  scant  of  gear,  has  it  store  of  pelf? 

"Unlock  my  heart  with  a  sonnet-key?" 

Invite  the  world,  as  my  betters  have  done? 

"Take  notice:  this  building  remains  on  view, 
Its  suites  of  reception  every  one, 

Its  private  apartment  and  bedroom  too; 

"For  a  ticket,  apply  to  the  Publisher." 
No:  thanking  the  public,  I  must  decline. 

A  peep  through  my  window,  if  folk  prefer; 

But,  please  you,  no  foot  over  threshold  of  mine! 

I  have  mixed  with  a  crowd  and  heard  free  talk 
In  a  foreign  land  where  an  earthquake  chanced 

And  a  house  stood  gaping,  naught  to  balk 
Man's  eye  wherever  he  gazed  or  glanced. 

The  whole  of  the  frontage  shaven  sheer, 

The  inside  gaped:  exposed  to  day, 
Right  and  wrong  and  common  and  queer, 

Bare,  as  the  palm  of  your  hand,  it  lay. 

The  owner?     Oh,  he  had  been  crushed,  no  doubt! 

"Odd  tables  and  chairs  for  a  man  of  wealth! 
What  a  parcel  of  musty  old  books  about! 

He  smoked, — no  wonder  he  lost  his  health! 

"I  doubt  if  he  bathed  before  he  dressed. 

A  brasier? — the  pagan,  ho  burned  perfumes! 
You  see  it  is  proved,  what  the  neighbors  guessed: 

His  wife  and  himself  had  separate  rooms." 

Friends,  the  good  man  of  the  house  at  least 
Kept  house  to  himself  till  an  earthquake  came: 

'T  is  the  fall  of  its  frontage  permits  you  feast 
On  the  inside  arrangement  you  praise  or  blame. 


232  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Outside  should  suffice  for  evidence : 

And  whoso  desires  to  penetrate 
Deeper,  must  dive  by  the  spirit-sense — 

No  optics  like  yours,  at  any  rate! 

"Hoity-toity!    A  street  to  explore, 
Your  house  the  exception !     '  With  this  same  key 

Shakespeare  unlocked  his  heart!,'1 — Once  more!" 
Did  Shakespeare?     If  so,  the  less  Shakespeare  he ! 

(1876.) 

1  A  quotation,  slightly  changed,  from  Wordsworth's  sonnet,  Scorn 
not  the  Sonnet. 


FEARS  AND  SCRUPLES 

Here's  my  case.     Of  old  I  used  to  love  him, 
This  same  unseen  friend,  before  I  knew: 

Dream  there  was  none  like  him,  none  above  him, — 
Wake  to  hope  and  trust  my  dream  was  true. 

Loved  I  not  his  letters  full  of  beauty? 

Not  his  actions  famous  far  and  wide? 
Absent,  he  would  know  I  vowed  him  duty; 

Present,  he  would  find  me  at  his  side. 

Pleasant  fancy!  for  I  had  but  letters, 

Only  knew  of  actions  by  hearsay : 
He  himself  was  busied  with  my  betters; 

What  of  that?     My  turn  must  come  some  day. 

"Some  day"  proving — no  day!     Here's  the  puzzle. 

Passed  and  passed  my  turn  is.     Why  complain? 
He's  so  busied!     If  I  could  but  muzzle 

People's  foolish  mouths  that  give  me  pain! 

"Letters?"  (hear  them!)     "You  a  judge  of  writing? 

Ask  the  experts!     How  they  shake  the  head 
O'er  these  characters,  your  friend's  inditing — 

Call  them  forgery  from  A  to  Z! 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  233 

"Actions?    Where's  your  certain  proof"  (they  bother) 

"He,  of  all  you  find  so  great  and  good, 
He,  he  only,  claims  this,  that,  the  other 

Action — claimed  by  men,  a  multitude?" 


I  can  simply  wish  I  might  refute  you, 

Wish  my  friend  would, — by  a  word,  a  wink, — 

Bid  me  stop  that  foolish  mouth, — you  brute  you! 
He  keeps  absent, — why,  I  cannot  think. 


Never  mind!    Though  foolishness  may  flout  me, 
One  thing's  sure  enough:  't  is  neither  frost, 

No,  nor  fire,  shall  freeze  or  burn  from  out  me 
Thanks    for    truth — though    falsehood,    gained- 
though  lost. 


All  my  days,  I'll  go  the  softlier,  sadlier, 
For  that  dream's  sake!     How  forget  the  thrill 

Through  and  through  me  as  I  thought  "The  gladlier 
Lives  my  friend  because  I  love  him  still!" 


Ah,  but  there's  a  menace  some  one  utters! 

"What  and  if  your  friend  at  home  play  tricks? 
Peep  at  hide-and-seek  behind  the  shutters? 

Mean  your  eyes  should  pierce  through  solid  bricks? 


"What  and  if  he,  frowning,  wake  you,  dreamy? 

Lay  on  you  the  blame  that  bricks — conceal? 
Say  'At  least  I  saw  who  did  not  see  me, 

Does  see  now,  and  presently  shall  feel'"?" 


"Why,  that  makes  your  friend  a  monster!"  say  you: 
"Had  his  house  no  window?     At  first  nod, 

Would  you  not  have  hailed  him?"     Hush,  I  pray  you! 
What  if  this  friend  happened  to  be — God? 

(1876.) 


234  ROBERT  BROWNING 

APPEARANCES 

And  so  you  found  that  poor  room  dull, 
Dark,  hardly  to  your  taste,  my  dear? 

Its  features  seemed  unbeautiful : 

But  this  I  know — 't  was  there,  not  here, 

You  plighted  troth  to  me.  the  word 

Which — ask  that  poor  room  how  it  heard. 

And  this  rich  room  obtains  your  praise 
Unqualified, — so  bright,  so  fair, 

So  all  whereat  perfection  stays? 

Ay,  but  remember — here,  not  there, 

The  other  word  was  spoken!     Ask 

This  rich  room  how  you  dropped  the  mask ! 

(1876.) 

HERVfi  RIEL 


On  the  sea  and  at  the  Hogue,  sixteen  hundred  ninety-two, 
Did  the  English  fight  the  French, — woe  to  France! 

And,  the  thirty-first  of  May,  helter-skelter  through  the  blue, 

Like  a  crowd  of  frightened  porpoises  a  shoal  of  sharks  pursue, 
Came  crowding  ship  on  ship  to  Saint  Malo  on  the  Ranee, 

With  the  English  fleet  in  view. 


ir 

'T  was  the  squadron  that  escaped,  with  the  victor  in  full 

chase : 
First  and  foremost  of  the  drove,  in  his  great  ship,  Dam- 

freville; 

Close  on  him  fled,  great  and  small, 
Twenty-two  good  ships  in  all; 
And  they  signalled  to  the  place 
''Help  the  winners  of  a  race! 

Get  us  guidance,  give  us  harbor,  take  us  quick — or,  quicker 

still, 
Here's  the  English  can  and  will!" 


POEMS  .AND  PLAYS  235 

in 

Then  the  pilots  of  the  place  put  out  brisk  and  leapt  on  board ; 
"Why,  what  hope  or  chance  have  ships  like  these  to  pass?" 

laughed  they: 
"Rocks  to  starboard,  rocks  to  port,  all  the  passage  scarred 

and  scored, 

Shall  the  'Formidable'  here  with  her  twelve  and  eighty  guns 
Think  to  make  the  river-mouth  by  the  single  narrow  way, 
Trust  to  enter  where  't  is  ticklish  for  a  craft  of  twenty  tons, 
And  with  flow  at  full  beside? 
Now,  't  is  slackest  ebb  of  tide. 
Reach  the  mooring?     Rather  say, 
While  rock  stands  or  water  runs, 
Not  a  ship  will  leave  the  bay!" 


IV 

Then  was  called  a  council  straight. 
Brief  and  bitter  the  debate: 

"  Here's  the  English  at  our  heels;  would  you  have  them  take 

in  tow 

All  that's  left  us  of  the  fleet  linked  together  stern  and  bow, 
For  a  prize  to  Plymouth  Sound? 
Better  run  the  ships  aground!'' 

(Ended  Damfreville  his  speech). 
"Not  a  minute  more  to  wait! 

Let  the  Captains  all  and  each 

Shove  ashore,  then  blow  up,  burn  the  vessels  on  the  beach! 
France  must  undergo  her  fate. , 


"Give  the  word!"     But  no  such  word 
Was  ever  spoke  or  heard; 

For  up  stood,  for  out  stepped,  for  in  struck  amid  all  these 
— A  Captain?     A  Lieutenant?     A  Mate — first,  second,  third? 
No  such  man  of  mark,  and  meet 
With  his  betters  to  compete! 
But  a  simple  Breton  sailor  pressed  by  Tourville  for  the 

fleet, 
A  poor  coasting-pilot  he,  Herve  Riel  the  Croisickese. 


236  ROBERT  BROWNING 

VI 

And  "What  mockery  or  malice  have  we  here?"  cries  Herv6 

Riel: 
"Are  you  mad,  you  Malouins?    Are  you  cowards,  fools, 

or  rogues? 
Talk  to  me  of  rocks  and  shoals,  me  who  took  the  soundings, 

teU 
On  my  fingers  every  bank,  every  shallow,  every  swell 

'Twixt  the  offing  here  and  Greve  where  the  river  disem- 
bogues? 

Are  you  bought  by  English  gold?     Is  it  love  the  lying's  for? 
Morn  and  eve,  night  and  day, 
Have  I  piloted  your  bay, 
Entered  free  and  anchored  fast  at  the  foot  of  Solidor. 

Burn  the  fleet  and  ruin  France?     That  were  worse  than 

fifty  Hogues! 
Sirs,  they  know  I  speak  the  truth!     Sirs,  believe  me 

there's  a  way! 
Only  let  me  lead  the  line, 
Have  the  biggest  ship  to  steer, 
Get  this  '  Formidable '  clear, 
Make  the  others  follow  mine, 

And  I  lead  them,  most  and  least,  by  a  passage  I  know  well, 
Right  to  Solidor  past  Greve, 

And  there  lay  them  safe  and  sound; 
And  if  one  ship  misbehave, 
— Keel  so  much  as  grate  the  ground, 

Why,  I've  nothing  but  my  life, — here's  my  head!"   cries 
nerve"  Riel. 

vn 

Not  a  minute  more  to  wait. 
"Steer  us  in,  then,  small  and  great! 

Take  the  helm,  lead  the  line,  save  the  squadron!"  cried  its 

chief. 
Captains,  give  the  sailor  place! 

He  is  Admiral,  in  brief. 
Still  the  north- wind,  by  God's  grace! 
See  the  noble  fellow's  face 
As  the  big  ship,  with  a  bound, 
Clears  the  entry  like  a  hound, 


POEMS  AND   PLAYS  237 

Keeps  the  passage  as  its  inch  of  way  were  the  wide  sea's 
profound ! 

See,  safe  through  shoal  and  rock, 

How  they  follow  in  a  flock, 
Not  a  ship  that  misbehaves,  not  a  keel  that  grates  the  ground 

Not  a  spar  that  comes  to  grief! 
The  peril,  see,  is  past,  * 

All  are  harbored  to  the  last, 

And  just  as  Herve*  Riel  hollas  "Anchor!" — sure  as  fate, 
Up  the  English  come — too  late! 

VIII 

So,  the  storm  subsides  to  calm : 

They  see  the  green  trees  wave 

On  the  heights  o'erlooking  Greve. 
Hearts  that  bled  are  stanched  with  balm. 
"Just  our  rapture  to  enhance, 

Let  the  English  rake  the  bay, 
Gnash  their  teeth  and  glare  askance 

As  they  cannonade  away! 

'Neath  rampired  Solidor  pleasant  riding  on  the  Ranee!" 
How  hope  succeeds  despair  on  each  Captain's  countenance! 
Out  burst  all  with  one  accord, 

"This  is  Paradise  for  Hell! 
Let  France,  let  France's  King 
Thank  the  man  that  did  the  thing!" 
What  a  shout,  and  all  one  word, 

"Herv6  Riel!" 
As  he  stepped  in  front  once  more, 

Not  a  symptom  of  surprise 

In  the  frank  blue  Breton  eyes, 
Just  the  same  man  as  before. 

IX 

Then  said  Damfreville,  "My  friend, 
I  must  speak  out  at  the  end, 

Though  I  find  the  speaking  hard. 
Praise  is  deeper  than  the  lips : 
You  have  saved  the  King  his  ships, 

You  must  name  your  own  reward. 
'Faith,  our  sun  was  near  eclipse! 


238  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Demand  whate'er  you  will, 
France  remains  your  debtor  still. 

Ask  to  heart's  content  and  have!  or  my  name's  not  Dam- 
freville." 


Then  a  beam  of  fun  outbroke 
On  the  bearded  mouth  that  spoke, 
As  the  honest  heart  laughed  through 
Those  frank  eyes  of  Breton  blue: 
"Since  I  needs  must  say  my  say, 

Since  on  board  the  duty's  done. 

And  fromMalo Roads  to  Croisic Point,  what  is  it  but  a  run? — 
Since  't  is  ask  and  have,  I  may — 

Since  the  others  go  ashore — 
Come!     A  good  whole  holiday! 

Leave  to  go  and  see  my  wife,  whom  I  call  the  Belle  Aurore ! " 

That  he  asked  and  that  he  got, — nothing  more. 


XI 

Name  and  deed  alike  are  lost: 
Not  a  pillar  nor  a  post 

In  his  Croisic  keeps  alive  the  feat  as  it  befell; 
Not  a  head  in  white  and  black 
On  a  single  fishing-smack, 
In  memory  of  the  man  but  for  whom  had  gone  to  wrack 

All  that  France  saved  from  the  fight  whence  England  bore 

the  bell. 
Go  to  Paris:  rank  on  rank 

Search  the  heroes  flung  pell-mell 
On  the  Louvre,  face  and  flank! 

You  shall  look  long  enough  ere  you  come  to  Herve"  Ricl. 
So,  for  better  and  for  worse, 
Herve"  Iliel,  accept  my  verse! 
In  my  verse,  Herv6  Iliel,  do  thou  once  more 
Save  the  squadron,  honor  France,  love  thy  wife  the  Belle 
Aurore ! 

(1876.) 


POEMS  AND   PLAYS  239 

PROLOGUE  TO  LA  SAISIAZ 

Good,  to  forgive; 

Best,  to  forget! 

Living,  we  fret; 
Dying,  we  live. 
Fretless  and  free, 

Soul,  clap  thy  pinion  f 

Earth  have  dominion, 
Body,  o'er  thee! 

Wander  at  will, 

Day  after  day, — 

Wander  away, 
Wandering  still — 
Soul  that  canst  soar! 

Body  may  slumber: 

Body  shall  cumber 
Soul-flight  no  more. 

Waft  of  soul's  wing! 

What  lies  above? 

Sunshine  and  Love, 
Sky  blue  and  Spring! 
Body  hides — where? 

Ferns  of  all  feather, 

Mosses  and  heather, 
Yours  be  the  care! 

(1878.) 

PROLOGUE  TO  THE  TWO  POETS  OF  CROISIG 

Such  a  starved  bank  of  moss 

Till,  that  May-morn, 
Blue  ran  the  flash  across: 

Violets  were  born! 

Sky — what  a  scowl  of  cloud 

Till,  near  and  far, 
Ray  on  ray  split  the  shroud: 

Splendid,  a  star! 


240  ROBERT  BROWNING 

World — how  it  walled  about 

Life  with  disgrace 
Till  God's  own  smile  came  out: 

That  was  thy  face! 

(1878.) 


PHEIDIPPIDES 

Xaipere,  viKuntv.  * 

First  I  salute  this  soil  of  the  blessed,  river  and  rock! 
Gods  of  my  birthplace,  daemons  and  heroes,  honor  to  all! 
Then  I  name  thee,  claim  thee  for  our  patron,  co-equal  in 

praise 
— Ay,  with  Zeus  the  Defender,  with  Her  of  the  aegis  and 

spear!2 

Also,  ye  of  the  bow  and  the  buskin,3  praised  be  your  peer, 
Now,  henceforth  and  forever, — 0  latest  to  whom  I  upraise 
Hand  and  heart  and  voice!  For  Athens,  leave  pasture  and 

flock! 
resent  to  help,  potent  to  save,  Pan — patron  I  call! 


Archons  of  Athens,  topped  by  the  tettix,  see,  I  return! 
See,  't  is  myself  here  standing  alive,  no  spectre  that  speaks! 
Crowned  with  the  myrtle,  did  you  command  me,  Athens  and 

you, 

"Run,  Pheidippides,  run  and  race,  reach  Sparta4  for  aid! 
Persia  has  come,  we  are  here,  where  is  She?"     Your  command 

I  obeyed, 
Ran  and  raced:  like  stubble,  some  field  which  a  fire  runs 

through, 
Was  the  space  between  city  and  city:  two  days,  two  nights 

did  I  burn 
Over  the  hills,  under  the  dales,  down  pits  and  up  peaks. 


1  Rejoice,  we  conquer. 

2  Athena. 

•1  Apollo  and  Artemis. 

*  About  135  miles  from  Athens. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  241 

Into  their  midst  I  broke:  breath  served  but  for  "Persia  has 

come! 

Persia  bids  Athens  proffer  slaves '-tribute,  water  and  earth; 
Razed  to  the  ground  is  Eretria — but  Athens,  shall  Athens 

sink, 

Drop  into  dust  and  die — the  flower  of  Hellas  utterly  die, 
Die,  with  the  wide  world  spitting  at   Sparta,  the  stupid, 

the  stander-by? 
Answer  me  quick,  what  help,  what  hand  do  you  stretch  o'er 

destruction's  brink? 
How, — when?     No  care  for  my  limbs! — there's  lightning  in 

all  and  some — 
Fresh  and  fit  your  message  to  bear,  once  lips  give  it  birth!" 


0  my  Athens — Sparta  love  thee?    Did  Sparta  respond? 
Every  face  of  her  leered  in  a  furrow  of  envy,  mistrust, 
Malice, — each  eye  of  her  gave  me  its  glitter  of  gratified  hate! 
Gravely  they  turned  to  take  counsel,  to  cast  for  excuses. 

I  stood 
Quivering, — the  limbs  of  me  fretting  as  fire  frets,  an  inch 

from  dry  wood: 

"Persia  has  come,  Athens  asks  aid,  and  still  they  debate? 
Thunder,  thou  Zeus!     Athene,  are  Spartans  a  quarry  beyond 
Swing   of   thy   spear?     Phoibos   and   Artemis,    clang   them 

'Ye  must'!" 


No  bolt  launched  from  Olumpos!     Lo,  their  answer  at  last! 

"Has  Persia  come, — does  Athens  ask  aid, — may  Sparta 
befriend? 

Nowise  precipitate  judgment — too  weighty  the  issue  at  stake! 

Count  we  no  time  lost  time  which  lags  through  respect  to 
the  gods! 

Ponder  that  precept  of  old,  'No  warfare,  whatever  the  odds 

In  your  favor,  so  long  as  the  moon,  half-orbed,  is  unable  to 
take 

Full-circle  her  state  in  the  sky!'  Already  she  rounds  to  it 
fast: 

Athens  must  wait,  patient  as  we — who  judgment  suspend.'* 

Athens, — except  for  that  sparkle, — thy  name,  I  had  mould- 
ered to  ash! 


242  ROBERT  BROWNING 

That  sent  a  blaze  through  ray  blood;  off,  off  and  away  was  I 

back, 
— Not  one  word  to  waste,  one  look  to  lose  on  the  false  and 

the  vile! 

Yet  "0  gods  of  my  land!"  I  cried,  as  each  hillock  and  plain, 
Wood  and  stream,  I  knew,  I  named,  rushing  past  them  again, 
"Have  ye  kept  faith,  proved  mindful  of  honors  we  paid  you 

ere  while? 

Vain  was  the  filleted  victim,  the  fulsome  libation!  Too  rash 
Love  in  its  choice,  paid  you  so  largely  service  so  slack! 

"Oak  and  olive  and  bay, — I  bid  you  cease  to  en  wreathe 
Brows  made  bold  by  your  leaf!     Fade  at  the  Persian's  foot, 
You  that,  our  patrons  were  pledged,  should  never  adorn  a 

slave! 

Rather  I  hail  thee,  Parnes, — trust  to  thy  wild  waste  tract! 
Treeless,  herbless,  lifeless  mountain!    What  matter  if  slacked 
My  speed  may  hardly  be,  for  homage  to  crag  and  to  cave 
No  deity  deigns  to  drape  with  verdure?  at  least  I  can  breathe, 
Fear  in  thee  no  fraud  from  the  blind,  no  lie  from  the  mute! " 

Such  my  cry  as,  rapid,  I  ran  over  Fames'  ridge; 
Gully  and  gap  I  clambered  and  cleared  till,  sudden,  a  bar 
Jutted,  a  stoppage  of  stone  against  me,  blocking  the  way. 
Right!  for  I  minded  the  hollow  to  traverse,  the  fissure  across: 
"Where  I  could  enter,  there  I  depart  by!     Night  in  the 

fosse? 
Athens  to  aid?     Though  the  dive  were  through  Erebos,  thus 

I  obey — 

Dut  of  the  day  dive,  into  the  day  as  bravely  arise !  No  bridge 
Better!" — when — ha!  what  was  it  I  came  on,  of  wonders  that 

are? 

There,  in  the  cool  of  a  cleft,  sat  he — majestical  Pan!1 

Ivy  dropped  wanton,  kissed  his  head,  moss  cushioned  his 

hoof: 

All  the  great  god  was  good  in  the  eyes  grave-kindly — the  curl 
Carved  on  the  bearded  cheek,  amused  at  a  mortal's  awe, 
As,  under  the  human  trunk,  the  goat-thighs  grand  I  saw. 

1  The  god  of  all  nature. 


POEMS  AND   PLAYS  243 

"Halt,  Pheidippides ! " — halt  I  did,  my  brain  of  a  whirl: 
"Hither  to  me!     Why  pale  in  my  presence?"  he  gracious 

began: 
"How  is  it, — Athens,  only  in  Hellas,  holds  me  aloof? 

"Athens,  she  only,  rears  me  no  fane,  makes  me  no  feast! 

Wherefore?  Than  I  what  godship  to  Athens  more  helpful 
of  old? 

Ay  and  still,  and  forever  her  friend!     Test  Pan,  trust  me! 

Go,  bid  Athens  take  heart,  laugh  Persia  to  scorn,  have  faith 

In  the  temples  and  tombs!  Go,  say  to  Athens,  'The  Goat- 
God  saith: 

When  Persia — so  much  as  strews  not  the  soil — is  cast  in  the 
sea, 

Then  praise  Pan  who  fought  in  the  ranks  with  your  most  and 
least, 

Goat-thigh  to  greaved-thigh,  made  one  cause  with  the  free 
and  the  bold!' 

"Say  Pan  saith:   'Let  this,  foreshowing  the  place,  be  the 

pledge!'  " 

(Gay,  the  liberal  hand  held  out  this  herbage  I  bear 
— Fennel — I   grasped  it  a-tremble   with  dew — whatever  it 

bode) 
"While,   as   for   thee"   .    .    .   But   enough!     He   was   gone. 

If  I  ran  hitherto — 

Be  sure  that,  the  rest  of  my  journey,  I  ran  no  longer,  but  flew. 
Parnes  to  Athens — earth  no  more,  the  air  was  my  road: 
Here  I  am  back.     Praise  Pan,  we  stand  no  more  on  the 

razor's  edge! 
Pan  for  Athens,  Pan  for  me!     I  too  have  a  guerdon  rare! 

Then  spoke  Miltiades.1     "And  thee,  best  runner  of  Greece, 
Whose  limbs  did  duty  indeed, — what  gift  is  promised  thyself? 
Tell  it  us  straightway, — Athens  the  mother  demands  of  her 

son!" 

Rosily  blushed  the  youth:  he  paused:  but,  lifting  at  length 
His  eyes  from  the  ground,  it  seemed  as  he  gathered  the  rest 
of  his  strength 

1  Commander  of  the  Greeks  at  the  battle  of  Marathon. 


244  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Into  the  utterance — "Pan  spoke  thus:  'For  what  thou  hast 

done 
Count  on  a  worthy  reward!    Henceforth  be  allowed  thee 

release 
From  the  racer's  toil,  no  vulgar  reward  in  praise  or  in  pelf!' 


"I  am  bold  to  believe,  Pan  means  reward  the  most  to  my 

mind! 
Fight  I  shall,  with  our  foremost,  wherever  this  fennel  may 

grow,— 

Pound — Pan  helping  us — Persia  to  dust,  and,  under  the  deep, 
Whelm  her  away  forever;  and  then, — no  Athens  to  save, — 
Marry  a  certain  maid,  I  know  keeps  faith  to  the  brave, — 
Hie  to  my  house  and  home :  and,  when  my  children  shall  creep 
Close  to  my  knees, — recount  how  the  God  was  awful  yet  kind, 
Promised  their  sire  reward  to  the  full — rewarding  him — sol" 


Unforseeing  one!    Yes,  he  fought  on  the  Marathon  day:1 

So,  when  Persia  was  dust,  all  cried  "To  Akropolis! 

Run,  Pheidippides,  one  race  more!  the  meed  is  thy  due! 

'Athens  is  saved,  thank  Pan/  go  shout!"  He  flung  down  his 
shield, 

Ran  like  fire  once  more:  and  the  space  'twixt  the  Fennel- 
field2 

And  Athens  was  stubble  again,  a  field  which  a  fire  runs 
through, 

Till  in  he  broke:  "Rejoice,  we  conquer!"  Like  wine  through 
clay, 

Joy  in  his  blood  bursting  his  heart,  he  died — the  bliss! 


So,  to  this  day,  when  friend  meets  friend,  the  word  of  salute 
Is  still  "Rejoice!" — his  word  which  brought  rejoicing  indeed. 
So  is  Pheidippides  happy  forever, — the  noble  strong  man 
Who  could  race  like  a  god,  bear  the  face  of  a  god,  whom  a 
god  loved  so  well; 


1  In  490  B.  C.     Marathon  is  about  twenty-six  miles  from  Athens. 
1  The  Greek  word  for  fennel  is  Marathon. 


POEMS  AND   PLAYS  245 

He  saw  the  land  saved  he  had  helped  to  save,  and  was  suf- 
fered to  tell 

Such  tidings,  yet  never  decline,  but,  gloriously  as  he  began, 
So  to  end  gloriously — once  to  shout,  thereafter  be  mute: 
"Athens  is  saved!" — Pheidippides  dies  in  the  shout  for  his 
meed. 

(1879.) 

MULEYKEH 

If  a  stranger  passed  the  tent  of  H6seyn,  he  cried  "A  churl's!" 
Or  haply  "God  help  the  man  who  has  neither  salt  nor  bread!" 
— "Nay,"  would  a  friend  exclaim,  "he  needs  nor  pity  nor 

scorn 
More  than  who  spends  small  thought  on  the  shore-sand, 

picking  pearls, 

— Holds  but  in  light  esteem  the  seed-sort,  bears  instead 
On  his  breast  a  moon-like  prize,  some  orb  which   of   night 

makes  morn. 

"What  if  no  flocks  and  herds  enrich  the  son  of  Sina"n? 
They  went  when  his  tribe  was  mulct,  ten  thousand  camels 

the  due, 

Blood-value  paid  perforce  for  a  murder  done  of  old. 
God  gave  them,  let  them  go!     But  never  since  time  began, 
'Mule"ykeh,  peerless  mare,  owned  master  the  match  of  you, 
And  you  are  my  prize,  mv  Pearl:  I  laugh  at  men's  land  and 

gold!' 

"So  in  the  pride  of  his  soul  laughs  Hoseyn — and  right,  I  say. 
Do  the  ten  steeds  run  a  race  of  glory?     Outstripping  all, 
Ever  Mule"ykeh  stands  first  steed  at  the  victor's  staff. 
Who  started,  the  owner's  hope,  gets  shamed  and  named,  that 

day. 

'Silence/  or,  last  but  one,  is  'The  Cuffed,'  as  we  used  to  call 
WThom  the  paddock's  lord  thrusts  forth.     Right,  H6seyn,  I 

say,  to  laugh!" 

"Boasts  he  Muleykeh  the  Pearl?"  the  stranger  replies:  "Be 

sure' 

On  him  I  waste  nor  scorn  nor  pity,  but  lavish  both 
On  Duhl  the  son  of  Sheybdn,  who  withers  away  in  heart 


246  ROBERT  BROWNING 

For  envy  of  H6seyn's  luck.     Such  sickness  admits  no  cure. 
A  certain  poet  has  sung,  and  sealed  the  same  with  an  oath, 
'For  the  vulgar — flocks  and  herds!     The  Pearl  is  a  prize 
apart.'  " 

Lo,  Duhl  the  son  of  Sheyban  comes  riding  to  H6seyn's  tent, 
And  he  casts  his  saddle  down,  and  enters  and  "Peace!"  bids  he. 
"You  are  poor,  I  know  the  cause:  my  plenty  shall  mend  the 

wrong. 

'T  is  said  of  your  Pearl — the  price  of  a  hundred  camels  spent 
In  her  purchase  were  scarce  ill  paid:  such  prudence  is  far  from 

me 
Who  proffer  a  thousand.     Speak!     Long  parley  may  last  too 

long." 

Said  H6seyn,  "You  feed  young  beasts  a  many,  of  famous 

breed, 

Slit-eared,  unblemished,  fat,  true  offspring  of  Muzennem: 
There  stumbles  no  weak-eyed  she  in  the  line  as  it  climbs  the 

hill. 

But  I  love  Mul^ykeh's  face:  her  forefront  whitens  indeed 
Like  a  yellowish  wave's  cream-crest.     Your  camels — go  gaze 

on  them! 
Her  fetlock  is  foam-splashed  too.     Myself  am  the  richer  still." 

A  year  goes  by:  lo,  back  to  the  tent  again  rides  Duhl. 
"You  are  open-hearted,  ay — moist-handed,  a  very  prince. 
Why  should  I  speak  of  sale?     Be  the  mare  your  simple  gift! 
My  son  is  pined  to  death  for  her  beauty:  my  wife  prompts 

'Fool, 

Beg  for  his  sake  the  Pearl!     Be  God  the  re  warder,  since 
God  pays  debts  seven  for  one:  who  squanders  on  him  shows 

thrift.'  " 

Said  H6seyn,  "God  gives  each  man  one  life,  like  a  lamp,  then 

gives 
That  lamp  due  measure  of  oil:  lamp  lighted — hold   high, 

wave  wide 
Its  comfort  for  others  to  share!  once  quench  it,  what  help  is 

left? 

The  oil  of  your  lamp  is  your  son :  I  shine  while  Mule"ykeh  lives. 
Would  I  beg  your  son  to  cheer  my  dark  if  MuleVkeh  died? 
It  is  life  against  life:  what  good  avails  to  the  life-bereft?" 


POEMS  AND   PLAYS  247 

Another  year,  and — hist!    What  craft  is  it  Duhl  designs? 
He  alights  not  at  the  door  of  the  tent  as  he  did  last  time, 
But,   creeping  behind,  he  gropes  his   stealthy  way   by   the 

trench 
Half-round  till  he  finds  the  flap  in  the  folding,  for  night 

combines 

With  the  robber — and  such  is  he:  Duhl,  covetous  up  to  crime, 
Must  wring  from  H6seyn's  grasp  the  Pearl,  by  whatever  the 

wrench. 


"He  was  hunger-bitten,  I  heard:  I  tempted  with  half  my 

store, 
And  a  jibe  was  all  my  thanks.     Is  he  generous  like  Spring 

dew? 

Account  the  fault  to  me  who  chaffered  with  such  an  one! 
He  has  killed,  to  feast  chance  comers,  the  creature  he  rode: 

nay,  more, — 

For  a  couple  of  singing-girls  his  robe  has  he  torn  in  two: 
I  will  beg!     Yet  I  nowise  gained  by  the  tale  of  my  wife  and 

son. 

"I  swear  by  the  Holy  House,  my  head  will  I  never  wash 
Till  I  filch  his  Pearl  away.     Fair  dealing  I  tried,  then  guile, 
And  now  I  resort  to  force.     He  said  we  must  live  or  die : 
Let  him  die,  then, — let  me  live!     Be  bold — but  not  too  rash! 
I  have  found  me  a  peeping-place :  breast,  bury  your  breathing 

while 
I  explore  for  myself!     Now,  breathe!     He  deceived  me  not, 

the  spy! 

"As  he  said — there  lies  in  peace  H6seyn — how  happy !     Beside 
Stands  tethered  the  Pearl:  thrice  winds  her  head-stall  about 

his  wrist: 
'T  is  therefore  he  sleeps  so  sound — the  moon  through  the 

roof  reveals. 
And,  loose  on  his  left,  stands  too  that  other,  known  far  and 

wide, 

Buhe"yseh,  her  sister  born:  fleet  is  she  yet  ever  missed 
The  winning  tail's  fire-flash  a-stream  past  the  thunperous 

heels. 


248  ROBERT  BROWNING 

"No  less  she  stands  saddled  and  bridled,  this  second,  in  case 

some  thief 

Should  enter  and  seize  and  fly  with  the  first,  as  I  mean  to  do. 
What  then?    The  Pearl  is  the  Pearl:  once  mount  her  we  both 

escape." 
Through  the  skirt  fold  in  glides  Duhl, — so  a  serpent  disturbs 

no  leaf 

In  a  bush  as  he  parts  the  twigs  entwining  a  nest:  clean  through, 
He  is  noiselessly  at  his  work:  as  he  planned,  he  performs 

the  rape. 

He  has  set  the  tent-door  wide,  has  buckled  the  girth,  has 

clipped 
The  headstall  away  from  the  wrist  he  leaves  thrice  bound  as 

before, 
He  springs  on  the  Pearl,  is  launched  on  the  desert  like  bolt 

from  bow. 
Up  starts  our  plundered  man:  from  his  breast  though  the 

heart  be  ripped, 

Yet  his  mind  has  the  mastery:  behold,  in  a  minute  more, 
He  is  out  and  off  and  away  on  Buhe"yseh,  whose  worth  we 

know! 

And  H6seyn — his  blood  turns  flame,  he  has  learned  long 

since  to  ride, 
And  Buhe"yseh  does  her  part, — they  gain — they  are  gaining 

fast 
On  the  fugitive  pair,  and  Duhl  has  Ed-Ddrraj  to  cross  and 

quit, 

And  to  reach  the  ridge  El-Sab£n, — no  safety  till  that  be  spied! 
And  Buhevseh  is,  bound  by  bound,  but  a  horse-length  off  at 

last, 
For  the  Pearl  has  missed  the  tap  of  the  heel,  the  touch  of 

the  bit. 

She  shortens  her  stride,  she  chafes  at  her  rider  the  strange 

and  queer: 

Buhe"yseh  is  mad  with  hope — beat  sister  she  shall  and  must, 
Though  Duhl,  of  the  hand  and  heel  so  clumsy,  she  has  to 

thank. 
She  is  near  now,  nose  by  tail — they  are  neck  by  croup — joy! 

fear! 


POEMS  AND   PLAYS  249 

What  folly  makes  H6seyn  shout  "Dog  Duhl,  Damned  son 

of  the  Dust, 
Touch  the  right  ear  and  press  with  your  foot  my  Pearl's 

left  flank!" 

And  Duhl  was  wise  at  the  word,  and  Mule"ykeh  as  prompt 

perceived 
Who  was  urging  redoubled  pace,  and  to  hear  him  was  to 

obey,  _ 

And  a  leap  indeed  gave  she,  and  evanished  forevermore. 
And  Hoseyn  looked  one  long  last  look  as  who,  all  bereaved, 
Looks,  fain  to  follow  the  dead  so  far  as  the  living  may: 
Then  he  turned  Buheyseh's  neck  slow  homeward,  weeping 


And,  lo,  in  the  sunrise,  still  sat  Hoseyn  upon  the  ground 
Weeping:  and  neighbors  came,  the  tribesmen  of  Benu-Asad 
In  the  vale  of  green  Er-Rass,  and  they  questioned  him  of  his 

grief; 
And  he  told  from  first  to  last  how,  serpent-like,  Duhl  had 

wound 

His  way  to  the  nest,  and  how  Duhl  rode  like  an  ape,  so  bad! 
And  how  Buheyseh  did  wonders,  yet  Pearl  remained  with 

the  thief. 

And  they  jeered  him,  one  and  all:    "Poor  Hoseyn  is  crazed 

past  hope! 

How  else  had  he  wrought  himself  his  ruin,  in  fortune's  spite? 
To  have  simply  held  the  tongue  were  a  task  for  boy  or  girl, 
And  here  were  Muleykeh  again,  the  eyed  like  an  antelope, 
The  child  of  his  heart  by  day,  the  wife  of  his  breast  by 

night!"— 
"And  the  beaten  in  speed!"  wept  Hoseyn.   "  You  never  have 

loved  my  Pearl." 

(1880.) 
WANTING  IS— WHAT? 

Wanting  is — what? 
Summer  redundant, 
Blueness  abundant, 
—Where  is  the  blot? 
Beamy  the  world,  yet  a  blank  all  the  same, 


250  ROBERT  BROWNING 

— Framework  which  waits  for  a  picture  to  frame? 
What  of  the  leafage,  what  of  the  flower? 
Roses  embowering  with  naught  they  embower! 
Come  then,  complete  incompletion,  O  comer, 
Pant  through  the  blueness,  perfect  the  summer! 

Breathe  but  one  breath 

Rose-beauty  above, 

And  all  that  was  death 

Grows  life,  grows  love, 

Grows  love! 

(1883.) 

ADAM,  LILITH,'  AND  EVE 

One  day,  it  thundered  and  lightened. 

Two  women,  fairly  frightened, 

Sank  to  their  knees,  transformed,  transfixed, 

At  the  feet  of  the  man  who  sat  betwixt; 

And  "Mercy!"  cried  each— "if  I  tell  the  truth 

Of  a  passage  in  my  youth!" 

Said  This:  "Do  you  mind  the  morning 
I  met  your  love  with  scorning? 
As  the  worst  of  the  venom  left  my  lips, 
I  thought,  'If,  despite  this  lie,  he  strips 
The  mask  from  my  soul  with  a  kiss — I  crawl 
His  slave, — soul,  body,  and  all!'" 

Said  that:  "We  stood  to  be  married; 
The  priest,  or  some  one,  tarried; 
'If  Paradise-door  prove  locked?'  smiled  you. 
I  thought,  as  I  nodded,  smiling  too, 
'Did  one,  that's  away,  arrive — nor  late 
Nor  soon  should  unlock  Hell's  gate!'" 

It  ceased  to  lighten  and  thunder. 

Up  started  both  in  wonder, 

Looked  round  and  saw  that  the  sky  was  clear, 

Then  laughed  "Confess  you  believed  us,  Dear!" 

"I  saw  through  the  joke!"  the  man  replied- 

They  re-seated  themselves  beside. 

(1883.) 

1  According  to  Jewish  folk-lore,  Adam's  first  wife,  created  with  him 
(Genesis  1:27).  Eve  was  created  later  from  onft  of  Adam's  ribs 
(Genesis  2:22). 


POEMS  AND   PLAYS  251 

NEVER  THE  TIME  AND  THE  PLACE 

Never  the  time  and  the  place 
And  the  loved  one  all  together! 

This  path — how  soft  to  pace! 
This  May — what  magic  weather! 

Where  is  the  loved  one's  face? 

In  a  dream  that  loved  one's  face  meets  mine, 
But  the  house  is  narrow,  the  place  is  bleak 

Where,  outside,  rain  and  wind  combine 
With  a  furtive  ear,  if  I  strive  to  speak, 
With  a  hostile  eye  at  my  flushing  cheek, 

With  a  malice  that  marks  each  word,  each  sign! 

O  enemy  sly  and  serpentine, 

Uncoil  thee  from  the  waking  man! 
Do  I  hold  the  Past 
Thus  firm  and  fast 
Yet  doubt  if  the  Future  hold  I  can? 
This  path  so  soft  to  pace  shall  lead 
Through  the  magic  of  May  to  herself  indeed! 
Or  narrow  if  needs  the  house  must  be, 
Outside  are  the  storms  and  strangers:  we — 
Oh,  close,  safe,  warm  sleep  I  and  she, 
— I  and  she! 

(1883.) 

SONNET 

Eyes,  calm  beside  thee  (Lady,  could'st  thou  know!) 

May  turn  away  thick  with  fast-gathering  tears: 
I  glance  not  where  all  gaze:  thrilling  and  low 

Their  passionate  praises  reach  thee — my  cheek  wears 
Alone  no  wonder  when  thou  passest  by; 
Thy  tremulous  lids,  bent  and  suffused,  reply 
To  the  irrepressible  homage  which  doth  glow 

On  every  lip  but  mine:  if  in  thine  ears 
Their  accents  linger — and  thou  dost  recall 

Me  as  I  stood,  still,  guarded,  very  pale, 
Beside  each  votarist  whose  lighted  brow 
Wore  worship  like  an  aureole,  "O'er  them  all 

My  beauty,"  thou  wilt  murmur,  "did  prevail 
Save  that  one  only:" — Lady,  could'st  thou  know! 

(1834.) 


252  ROBERT  BROWNING 

BEN  KARSHOOK'S  WISDOM 


"Would  a  man  'scape  the  rod?" 
Rabbi  Ben  Karshook  saith, 

"  See  that  he  turn  to  God 
The  day  before  his  death." 

"Ay,  could  a  man  inquire 
When  it  shall  come!"  I  say, 

The  Rabbi's  eye  shoots  fire — 
"Then  let  him  turn  to-day!" 

ii 

Quoth  a  young  Sadducee: 

"Reader  of  many  rolls, 
Is  it  so  certain  we 

Have,  as  they  tell  us,  souls? " 

"Son,  there  is  no  reply!" 
The  Rabbi  bit  his  beard: 

"Certain,  a  soul  have  / — 

We  may  have  none,"  he  sneer'd. 


Thus  Karshook,  the  Hiram's-Hammer, 
The  Right-hand  Temple-column, 

Taught  babes  in  grace  their  grammar, 
And  struck  the  simple,  solemn. 

(1856.) 

WHY  I  AM  A   LIBERAL 

"Why?"     Because  all  I  haply  can  and  do, 
All  that  I  am  now,  all  I  hope  to  be, — 
Whence  comes  it  save  from  fortune  setting  free 

Body  and  soul  the  purpose  to  pursue, 

God  traced  for  both?     If  fetters,  not  a  few, 
Of  prejudice,  convention,  fall  from  me, 
These  shall  I  bid  men — each  in  his  degree 

Also  God-guided—bear,  and  gayly,  too? 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  253 

But  little  do  or  can  the  best  of  us: 
That  little  is  achieved  through  Liberty. 

Who,  then,  dares  hold,  emancipated  thus, 
His  fellow  shall  continue  bound?     Not  I, 

Who  live,  love,  labor  freely,  nor  discuss 
A  brother's  right  to  freedom.    That  is  "Why." 

(1885.) 


PROLOGUE  TO  ASOLANDO 

"The  Poet's  age  is  sad:  for  why? 

In  youth,  the  natural  world  could  show 
No  common  object  but  his  eye 

At  once  involved  with  alien  glow — 
His  own  soul's  iris-bow. 

"And  now  a  flower  is  just  a  flower: 

Man,  bird,  beast  are  but  beast,  bird,  man- 
Simply  themselves,  uncinct  by  dower 

Of  dyes  which,  when  life's  day  began, 
Round  each  in  glory  ran." 

Friend,  did  you  need  an  optic  glass, 

Which  were  your  choice?    A  lens  to  drape 

In  ruby,  emerald,  chrysopras, 
Each  object — or  reveal  its  shape 

Clear  outlined,  past  escape, 

The  naked  very  thing? — so  clear 

That,  when  you  had  the  chance  to  gaze. 

You  found  its  inmost  self  appear 

Through  outer  seeming — truth  ablaze, 

Not  falsehood's  fancy-haze? 

How  many  a  year,  my  Asolo, 

Since — one  step  just  from  sea  to  land — 
I  found  you,  loved  yet  feared  you  so — 

For  natural  objects  seemed  to  stand 
Palpably  fire-clothed!     No — 


254  ROBERT   BROWNING 

No  mastery  of  mine  o'er  these! 

Terror  with  beauty,  like  the  Bush1 
Burning  but  unconsumed.     Bend  knees, 

Drop  eyes  to  earthward!     Language?    Tush! 
Silence  't  is  awe  decrees. 

And  now?    The  lambent  flame  is — where? 

Lost  from  the  naked  world:  earth,  sky, 
Hill,  vale,  tree,  flower, — Italia's  rare 

O'er-running  beauty  crowds  the  eye — 
But  flame?    The  bush  is  bare. 

Hill,  vale,  tree,  flower — they  stand  distinct, 
Nature  to  know  and  name.     What  then? 

A  Voice  spoke  thence  which  straight  unlinked 
Fancy  from  fact:  see,  all's  in  ken: 

Has  once  my  eyelid  winked? 

No,  for  the  purged  ear  apprehends 
Earth's  import,  not  the  eye  late  dazed. 

The  Voice  said,  "Call  my  works  thy  friends! 
At  Nature  dost  thou  shrink  amazed? 

God  is  it  who  transcends." 

(1889.) 

ROSNY' 

Woe,  he  went  galloping  into  the  war, 

Clara,  Clara! 
Let  us  two  dream:  shall  he  'scape  with  a  scar? 

Scarcely  disfigurement,  rather  a  grace 
Making  for  manhood  which  nowise  we  mar: 
See,  while  I  kiss  it,  the  flush  on  his  face — 
Rosny,  Rosny! 

Light  does  he  laugh:     "With  your  love  in  my  soul" — 

(Clara,  Clara!) 

"How  could  I  other  than — sound,  safe,  and  whole — 
Cleave  who  opposed  me  asunder,  yet  stand 

1  Exodus  3:  2-6. 

2  The  Duke  of  Sully  (1560-1641),  called  Rosny  from  the  name  of 
his  birthplace. 


POEMS  AND   PLAYS  255 

Scatheless  beside  you,  as,  touching  love's  goal, 

Who  won  the  race  kneels,  craves  reward  at  your  hand — 
Rosny,  Rosny?" 


Ay,  but  if  certain  who  envied  should  see! 

Clara,  Clara, 
Certain  who  simper:     "The  hero  for  me 

Hardly  of  life  were  so  chary  as  miss 
Death— <leath  and  fame — that's  love's  guerdon  when  She 
Boasts,  proud  bereaved  one,  her  choice  fell  on  this 
Rosny,  Rosny!" 


So, — go  on  dreaming, — he  lies  mid  a  heap 

(Clara,  Clara,) 
Of  the  slain  by  his  hand:  what  is  death  but  a  sleep? 

Dead,  with  my  portrait  displayed  on  his  breast: 
Love  wrought  his  undoing:     "No  prudence  could  keep 
The  love-maddened  wretch  from  his  fate."     That  is  best, 
Rosny,  Rosny! 

(1889.) 


POETICS 


"So  say  the  foolish!"     Say  the  foolish  so,  Love? 

"Flower  she  is,  my  rose" — or  else   "My  very  swan  is 

she"— 

Or  perhaps,"  Yon  maid-moon,  blessing  earth  below,  Love, 
That  art  thou!" — to  them,  belike:  no  such  vain  words 
from  me. 


"Hush,  rose,  blush!  no  balm  like  breath,"  I  chide  it: 

"Bend  thy  neck  its  best,  swan, — hers  the  whiter  curve!" 

Be  the  moon  the  moon:  my  Love  I  place  beside  it: 

What  is  she?     Her  human  self, — no  lower  word  will  serve. 

(1889.) 


256  ROBERT  BROWNING 

SUMMUM  BONUM 

All  the  breath  and  the  bloom  of  the  year  in  the  bag  of  one  bee : 
All  the  wonder  and  wealth  of  the  mine  in  the  heart  of  one 

gem: 

In  the  core  of  one  pearl  all  the  shade  and  the  shine  of  the  sea : 
Breath  and  bloom,  shade  and  shine, — wonder,  wealth,  and 
— how  far  above  them — 

Truth,  that's  brighter  than  gem, 
Trust,  that's  purer  than  pearl, — 

Brightest  truth,  purest  trust  in  the  universe — all  were  for  me 
In  the  kiss  of  one  girl. 

(1889.) 

BAD  DREAMS 

Last  night  I  saw  you  in  my  sleep : 
And  how  you  charm  of  face  was  changed ! 

I  asked,  "Some  love,  some  faith  you  keep?" 
You  answered,  "Faith  gone,  love  estranged." 

Whereat  I  woke — a  twofold  bliss: 

Waking  was  one,  but  next  there  came 

This  other:  "Though  I  felt,  for  this, 
My  heart  break,  I  loved  on  the  same." 

(1889.) 

DEVELOPMENT 

My  Father  was  a  scholar  and  knew  Greek. 
When  I  was  five  years  old,  I  asked  him  once 
"What  do  you  read  about?" 

"The  siege  of  Troy." 
"What  is  a  siege,  and  what  is  Troy?" 

Whereat 

He  piled  up  chairs  and  tables  for  a  town, 
Set  me  a-top  for  Priam,  called  our  cat 
— Helen,  enticed  away  from  home  (he  said) 
By  wicked  Paris,  who  couched  somewhere  close 
Under  the  footstool,  being  cowardly, 
But  whom — since  she  was  worth  the  pains,  poor  puss — 
Towzer  and  Tray, — our  dogs,  the  Atreidai, — sought 
By  taking  Troy  to  get  possession  of 
— Always  when  great  Achilles  ceased  to  sulk, 


POEMS  AND   PLAYS  257 

(My  pony  in  the  stable) — forth  would  prance 

And  put  to  flight  Hector — our  page-boy's  self. 

This  taught  me  who  was  who  and  what  was  what: 

So  far  I  rightly  understood  the  case 

At  five  years  old;  a  huge  delight  it  proved 

And  still  proves — thanks  to  that  instructor  sage 

My  Father,  who  knew  better  than  turn  straight 

Learning's  full  flare  on  weak-eyed  ignorance, 

Or,  worse  yet,  leave  weak  eyes  to  grow  sand-blind, 

Content  with  darkness  and  vacuity. 

It  happened,  two  or  three  years  afterward, 

That — I  and  playmates  playing  at  Troy's  Siege — 

My  Father  came  upon  our  make-believe. 

"How  would  you  like  to  read  yourself  the  tale 

Properly  told,  of  which  I  gave  you  first 

Merely  such  notion  as  a  boy  could  bear? 

Pope,  now,  would  give  you  the  precise  account 

Of  what,  some  day,  by  dint  of  scholarship, 

You'll  hear — who  knows? — from  Homer's  very  mouth. 

Learn  Greek  by  all  means,  read  the  '  Blind  Old  Man, 

Sweetest  of  Singers' — tuphlos  which  means  'blind/ 

Hedistos  which  means  'sweetest.'     Time  enough! 

Try,  anyhow,  to  master  him  some  day; 

Until  when,  take  what  serves  for  substitute, 

Read  Pope,1  by  all  means!" 

So  I  ran  through  Pope, 
Enjoyed  the  tale — what  history  so  true? 
Also  attacked  my  Primer,  duly  drudged, 
Grew  fitter  thus  for  what  was  promised  next — 
The  very  thing  itself,  the  actual  words, 
When  I  could  turn — say,  Buttmann2  to  account. 

Time  passed,  I  ripened  somewhat:  one  fine  day, 
"Quite  ready  for  the  Iliad,  nothing  less? 
There's  Heine,3  where  the  big  books  block  the  shelf: 
Don't  skip  a  word,  thumb  well  the  Lexicon!" 

1  The  translation  of  Homer  by  Alexander  Pope  (1688-1744). 
1  Author  of  an  advanced  Greek  grammar. 

1  Heine  (usually  spelled  Heyne)  was  editor  of  a  standard  text  of 
Homer. 


258  ROBERT  BROWNING 

I  thumbed  well  and  skipped  nowise  till  I  learned 
Who  was  who,  what  was  what,  from  Homer's  tongue, 
And  there  an  end  of  learning.     Had  you  asked 
The  all-accomplished  scholar,  twelve  years  old, 
"Who  was  it  wrote  the  Iliad?" — what  a  laugh! 
"Why,  Homer,  all  the  world  knows:  of  his  life 
Doubtless  some  facts  exist:  it's  everywhere: 
We  have  not  settled,  though,  his  place  of  birth: 
He  begged,  for  certain,  and  was  blind  beside: 
Seven  cities  claimed  him — Scio,  with  best  right, 
Thinks   Byron.     What   he   wrote?    Those   Hymns   we 

have. 

Then  there's  the  'Battle  of  the  Frogs  and  Mice,' 
That's  all — unless  they  dig  'Margites'  up 
(I'd  like  that)  nothing  more  remains  to  know." 

Thus  did  youth  spend  a  comfortable  time; 
Until — "What's  this  the  Germans  say  in  fact 
That  Wolf1  found  out  first?     It's  unpleasant  work 
Their  chop  and  change,  unsettling  one's  belief: 
All  the  same,  where  we  live,  we  learn,  that's  sure." 
So,  I  bent  brow  o'er  Prolegomena. 
And  after  Wolf,  a  dozen  of  his  like 
Proved  there  was  never  any  Troy  at  all, 
Neither  Besiegers  nor  Besieged, — nay,  worse, — 
No  actual  Homer,  no  authentic  text, 
No  warrant  for  the  fiction  I,  as  fact, 
Had  treasured  in  my  heart  and  soul  so  long — 
Ay,  mark  you!  and  as  fact  held  still,  still  hold, 
Spite  of  new  knowledge,  in  my  heart  of  hearts 
And  soul  of  souls,  fact's  essence  freed  and  fixed 
From  accidental  fancy's  guardian  sheath. 
Assuredly  thenceforward — thank  my  stars! — 
However  it  got  there,  deprive  who  could — 
Wring  from  the  shrine  my  precious  tenantry, 
Helen,  Ulysses,  Hector  and  his  Spouse, 
Achilles  and  his  Friend?— though  Wolf  —ah,  Wolf! 
Why  must  he  needs  come  doubting,  spoil  a  dream? 


1  German  scholor,  who  maintained  that  Homer  was  the  compiler, 
rather  than  the  author,  of  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  259 

But  then,  "No  dream's  worth  waking" — Browningsays: 

And  here's  the  reason  why  I  tell  thus  much. 

I,  now  mature  man,  you  anticipate, 

May  blame  my  Father  justifiably 

For  letting  me  dream  out  my  nonage  thus, 

And  only  by  such  slow  and  sure  degrees 

Permitting  me  to  sift  the  grain  from  chaff, 

Get  truth  and  falsehood  known  and  named  as  such. 

Why  did  he  ever  let  me  dream  at  all, 

Not  bid  me  taste  the  story  in  its  strength? 

Suppose  my  childhood  was  scarce  qualified 

To  rightly  understand  mythology, 

Silence  at  least  was  in  his  power  to  keep: 

I  might  have — somehow — correspondingly — 

Well,  who  knows  by  what  method,  gained  my  gains, 

Been  taught,  by  forthrights  not  meanderings, 

My  aim  should  be  to  loathe,  like  Peleus '  son, 

A  lie  as  Hell's  Gate,  love  my  wedded  wife, 

Like  Hector,  and  so  on  with  all  the  rest. 

Could  not  I  have  excogitated  this 

Without  believing  such  men  really  were? 

That  is — he  might  have  put  into  my  hand 

The  "Ethics"?1     In  translation,  if  you  please, 

Exact,  no  pretty  lying  that  improves, 

To  suit  the  modern  taste:  no  more  no  less — 

The  "Ethics:"  't  is  a  treatise  I  find  hard 

To  read  aright  now  that  my  hair  is  gray, 

And  I  can  manage  the  original. 

At  five  years  old — how  ill  had  fared  its  leaves! 

Now,  growing  double  o'er  the  Stagirite,2 

At  least  I  soil  no  page  with  bread  and  milk, 

Nor  crumple,  dogs-ear  and  deface — boys'  way. 

(1889.) 

1  One  of  Aristotle's  works. 

2  Aristotle  (384-322  B.  C.),  born  at  Stagiros. 

EPILOGUE  TO  ASOLANDO 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep-time, 

When  you  set  your  fancies  free, 

Will  they  pass  to  where — by  death,  fools  think,  imprisoned — 
Low  he  lies  who  once  so  loved  you,  whom  you  loved  so, 
— Pity  me? 


260  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Oh  to  love  so,  be  so  loved,  yet  so  mistaken  I 

What  had  I  on  earth  to  do 

With  the  slothful,  with  the  mawkish,  the  unmanly? 
Like  the  aimless,  helpless,  hopeless,  did  I  drivel 
— Being — who? 

One  who  never  turned  his  back  but  marched  breast  forward, 

Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 
Never  dreamed,  though  right  were  worsted,  wrong  would 

triumph, 

Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better, 
Sleep  to  wake. 

No,  at  noonday  in  the  bustle  of  man's  work-time 

Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer! 

Bid  him  forward,  breast  and  back  as  either  should  be, 
"Strive  and  thrive!"  cry  "Speed, — fight  on,  fare  ever 
There  as  here!" 

(1889.) 


PLAYS 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  263 

PIPPA  PASSES 

A   DRAMA 

PERSONS 
Pippa. 

Ottima. 

Sebald. 

Foreign  Students. 

Gottleib. 

Schramm. 

Jules. 

Phene. 

Austrian  Police. 

Bluphocks. 

Luigi  and  his  Mother. 

Poor  Girls. 

Monsignor  and  his  Attendants. 

INTRODUCTION 

NEW  YEAR'S  DAY  AT  AsoLO1  IN  THE  TREVISAN 

A  large  mean  airy  chamber.     A  girl,  PIPPA,  from  the  silk- 
mills,  springing  out  of  bed. 

Day! 

Faster  and  more  fast, 

O'er  night's  brim,  day  boils  at  last:    • 

Boils,  pure  gold,  o'er  the  cloud-cup's  brim 

Where  spurting  and  suppressed  it  lay, 

For  not  a  froth-flake  touched  the  rim 

Of  yonder  gap  in  the  solid  gray 

Of  the  eastern  cloud,  an  hour  away; 

But  forth  one  wavelet,  then  another,  curled, 

Till  the  whole  sunrise,  not  to  be  suppressed, 

Rose,  reddened,  and  its  seething  breast 

Flickered  in  bounds,  grew  gold,  then  overflowed  the  world. 

Oh  Day,  if  I  squander  a  wavelet  of  thee, 
A  mite  of  my  twelve  hours '  treasure, 
The  least  of  thy  gazes  or  glances, 

1  A  small  town,   well  known  to  Browning,   about  thirty  milea 
from  Venice. 


264  ROBERT  BROWNING 

(Be  they  grants  them  art  bound  to  or  gifts  above  measure) 

One  of  thy  choices  or  one  of  thy  chances, 

(Be  they  tasks  God  imposed  thee  or  freaks  at  thy  pleasure) 

— My  Day,  if  I  squander  such  labour  or  leisure, 

Then  shame  fall  on  Asolo,  mischief  on  me! 

Thy  long  blue  solemn  hours  serenely  flowing, 
Whence  earth,  we  feel,  gets  steady  help  and  good — 
Thy  fitful  sunshine-minutes,  coming,  going, 
As  if  earth  turned  from  work  in  gamesome  mood — 
All  shall  be  mine!     But  thou  must  treat  me  not 
As  prosperous  ones  are  treated,  those  who  live 
At  hand  here,  and  enjoy  the  higher  lot, 
In  readiness  to  take  what  thou  wilt  give, 
And  free  to  let  alone  what  thou  refusest; 
For,  Day,  my  holiday,  if  thou  ill-usest 
Me,  who  am  only  Pippa, — old-year's  sorrow, 
Cast  off  last  night,  will  come  again  to-morrow: 
Whereas,  if  thou  prove  gentle,  I  shall  borrow 
Sufficient  strength  of  thee  for  new-year's  sorrow. 
All  other  men  and  women  that  this  earth 
Belongs  to,  who  all  days  alike  possess, 
Make  general  plenty  cure  particular  dearth, 
Get  more  joy  one  way,  if  another,  less: 
Thou  art  my  single  day,  God  lends  to  leaven 
What  were  all  earth  else,  with  a  feel  of  heaven, — 
Sole  light  that  helps  me  through  the  year,  thy  sun's! 
Try  now!    Take  Asolo's  Four  Happiest  Ones — 
And  let  thy  morning  rain  on  that  superb 
Great  haughty  Ottima;  can  rain  disturb 
Her  Sebalk's  homage?     All  the  while  thy  rain 
Beats  fiercest  on  her  shrub-house  window-pane 
He  will  but  press  the  closer,  breathe  more  warm 
Against  her  cheek;  how  should  she  mind  the  storm? 
And,  morning  past,  if  mid-day  shed  a  gloom 
O'er  Jules  and  Phene, — what  care  bride  and  groom 
Save  for  their  dear  selves?     'Tis  their  marriage-day; 
And  while  they  leave  church  and  go  home  their  way 
Hand  clasping  hand,  within  each  breast  would  be 
Sunbeams  and  pleasant  weather  spite  of  thee. 
Then,  for  another  trial,  obscure  thy  eve 
With  mist, — will  Luigi  and  his  mother  grieve — 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  265 

The  lady  and  her  child,  unmatched,  forsooth, 

She  in  her  age,  as  Luigi  in  his  youth, 

For  true  content?    The  cheerful  town,  warm,  close 

And  safe,  the  sooner  that  thou  art  morose, 

Receives  them.     And  yet  once  again,  outbreak 

In  storm  at  night  on  Monsignor,  they  make 

Such  stir  about, — whom  they  expect  from  Rome 

To  visit  Asolo,  his  brothers'  home, 

And  say  here  masses  proper  to  release 

A  soul  from  pain, — what  storm  dares  hurt  his  peace? 

Calm  would  he  pray,  with  his  own  thoughts  to  ward 

Thy  thunder  off,  nor  want  the  angels '  guard. 

But  Pippa — just  one  such  mischance  would  spoil 

Her  day  that  lightens  the  next  twelvemonth's  toil 

At  wearisome  silk- winding,  coil  on  coil! 

And  here  I  let  time  slip  for  nought! 
Aha,  you  foolhardy  sunbeam,  caught 
With  a  single  splash  from  my  ewer! 
You  that  would  mock  the  best  pursuer, 
Was  my  basin  over-deep? 
One  splash  of  water  ruins  you  asleep, 
And  up,  up,  fleet  your  brilliant  bits 
Wheeling  and  counterwheeling, 
Reeling,  broken  beyond  healing: 
Now  grow  together  on  the  ceiling! 
That  will  task  your  wits. 

Whoever  it  was  quenched  fire  first,  hoped  to  see 
Morsel  after  morsel  flee 
As  merrily,  as  giddily   .    .    . 
Meantime,  what  lights  my  sunbeam  on, 
Where  settles  by  degrees  the  radiant  cripple? 
Oh,  is  it  surely  blown,  my  martagon? 
New-blown  and  ruddy  as  St.  Agnes'  nipple, 
Plump  as  the  flesh-bunch  on  some  Turk  bird's  poll! 
Be  sure  if  corals,  branching  'neath  the  ripple 
Of  ocean,  bud  there, — fairies  watch  unroll 
Such  turban-flowers;  I  say,  such  lamps  disperse 
Thick  red  flame  through  that  dusk  green  universe! 
I  am  queen  of  thee,  floweret! 
And  each  fleshy  blossom 
Preserve  I  not — (safer 
Than  leaves  that  embower  it, 


36  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Or  shells  that  embosom) 

— From  weevil  and  chafer? 

Laugh  through  my  pane,  then;  solicit  the  bee; 

Gibe  him,  be  sure;  and,  in  midst  of  thy  glee, 

Love  thy  queen,  worship  me! 

—Worship  whom  else?     For  am  I  not,  this  day, 

Whate'er  I  please?     What  shall  I  please  to-day? 

My  morn,  noon,  eve  and  night — how  spend  my  day? 

To-morrow  I  must  be  Pippa  who  winds  silk, 

The  whole  year  round,  to  earn  just  bread  and  milk: 

But,  this  one  day,  I  have  leave  to  go, 

And  play  out  my  fancy's  fullest  games; 

I  may  fancy  all  day — and  it  shall  be  so — 

That  I  taste  of  the  pleasures,  am  called  by  the  names 

Of  the  Happiest  Four  in  our  Asolo! 

See!     Up  the  hill-side  yonder,  through  the  morning, 

Some  one  shall  love  me,  as  the  world  calls  love: 

I  am  no  less  than  Ottima,  take  warning! 

The  gardens,  and  the  great  stone  house  above, 

And  other  house  for  shrubs,  all  glass  in  front, 

Are  mine;  Avhere  Sebald  steals,  as  he  is  wont, 

To  court  me,  while  old  Luca  yet  reposes: 

And  therefore,  till  the  shrub-house  door  uncloses, 

I   ...   what  now? — give  abundant  cause  for  prate 

About  me — Ottima,  I  mean — -of  late, 

Too  bold,  too  confident  she'll  still  face  down 

The  spitefullest  of  talkers  in  our  town. 

How  we  talk  in  the  little  town  below! 

But  love,  love,  love — there's  better  love,  I  know! 
This  foolish  love  was  only  day's  first  offer; 
I  choose  my  next  love  to  defy  the  scoffer: 
For  do  not  our  Bride  and  Bridegroom  sally 
Out  of  Possagno  church  at  noon? 
Their  house  looks  over  Orcana  valley: 
Why  should  not  I  be  the  bride  as  soon 
As  Ottima?     For  I  saw,  beside, 
Arrive  last  night  that  little  bride — 
Saw,  if  you  call  it  seeing  her,  one  flash 
Of  the  pale  snow-pure  cheek  and  black  bright  tresses, 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  267 

Blacker  than  all  except  the  black  eyelash; 

I  wonder  she  contrives  those  lids  no  dresses! 

— So  strict  was  she,  the  veil 

Should  cover  close  her  pale 

Pure  cheeks — a  bride  to  look  at  and  scarce  touch, 

Scarce  touch,  remember,  Jules!  for  are  not  such 

Used  to  be  tended,  flower-like,  every  feature, 

As  if  one's  breath  would  fray  the  lily  of  a  creature? 

A  soft  and  easy  life  these  ladies  lead: 

Whiteness  in  us  were  wonderful  indeed. 

Oh,  save  that  brow  its  virgin  dimness, 

Keep  that  foot  its  lady  primness, 

Let  those  ankles  never  swerve 

From  their  exquisite  reserve, 

Yet  have  to  trip  along  the  streets  like  me, 

All  but  naked  to  the  knee! 

Plow  will  she  ever  grant  her  Jules  a  bliss 

So  startling  as  her  real  first  infant  kiss? 

Oh,  no — not  envy,  this! 

— Not  envy,  sure! — for  if  you  gave  me 

Leave  to  take  or  to  refuse, 

In  earnest,  do  you  think  I'd  choose 

That  sort  of  new  love  to  enslave  me? 

Mine  should  have  lapped  me  round  from  the  beginning; 

As  little  fear  of  losing  it  as  winning: 

Lovers  grow  cold,  men  learn  to  hate  their  wives, 

And  only  parents'  love  can  last  our  lives. 

At  eve  the  Son  and  Mother,  gentle  pair, 

Commune  inside  our  turret:  what  prevents 

My  being  Luigi?     While  that  mossy  lair 

Of  lizards  through  the  winter-time  is  stirred 

With  each  to  each  imparting  sweet  intents 

For  this  new-year,  as  brooding  bird  to  bird — 

(For  I  observe  of  late,  the  evening  walk 

Of  Luigi  and  his  mother,  always  ends 

Inside  our  ruined  turret,  where  they  talk, 

Calmer  than  lovers,  yet  more  kind  than  friends) 

— Let  me  be  cared  about,  kept  out  of  harm, 

And  schemed  for,  safe  in  love  as  with  a  charm; 

Let  me  be  Luigi!     If  I  only  knew 

What  was  my  mother's  face — my  father,  too! 


268  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Nay,  if  you  come  to  that,  best  love  of  all 
Is  God's;  then  why  not  have  God's  love  befall 
Myself  as,  in  the  palace  by  the  Dome, 
Monsignor? — who  to-night  will  bless  the  home 
Of  his  dead  brother;  and  God  bless  in  turn 
That  heart  which  beats,  those  eyes  which  mildly  burn 
With  love  for  all  men!    I,  to-night  at  least, 
Would  be  that  holy  and  beloved  priest. 

Now  wait! — even  I  already  seem  to  share 

In  God's  love:  what  does  New-year's  hymn  declare? 

What  other  meaning  do  these  verses  bear? 

All  service  ranks  the  same  with  God: 

If  now,  as  formerly  he  trod 

Paradise,  his  presence  fills 

Our  earth,  each  only  as  God  wills 

Can  work — God's  puppets,  best  and  worst, 

Are  we;  there  is  no  last  nor  first. 

Say  not  a  "small  event!"     Why  "small"? 
Costs  it  more  pain  that  this,  ye  call 
A  "great  event,"  should  come  to  pass, 
Than  that?  Untwine  me  from  the  mass 
Of  deeds  which  make  up  life,  one  deed 
Power  shall  fall  short  in  or  exceed! 

And  more  of  it,  and  more  of  it! — oh  yes — 

I  will  pass  each,  and  see  their  happiness, 

And  envy  none — being  just  as  great,  no  doubt, 

Useful  to  men,  and  dear  to  God,  as  they! 

A  pretty  thing  to  care  about 

So  mightily,  this  single  holiday! 

But  let  the  sun  shine!     Wherefore  repine? 

— With  thee  to  lead  me,  0  Day  of  mine, 

Down  the  grass-path  gray  with  dew, 

Under  the  pine-wood,  blind  with  boughs, 

Where  the  swallow  never  flew 

Nor  yet  cicale  dared  carouse — 

No,  dared  carouse!  [She  enters  the  street. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  269 

I. — MORNING 

Up  the  Hill-side,  inside  the  Shrub-house.     LUCA'S 
Wife,  OTTIMA,  and  her  Paramour,  the  German  SEBALD. 

Seb.  [sings.]     Let  the  watching  lids  wink! 

Day's  a-blaze  with  eyes,  think! 
Deep  into  the  night,  drink! 

Otti.     Night?     Such    may    be    your    Rhine-land    nights, 

perhaps; 

But  this  blood-red  beam  through  the  shutter's  chink 
— We  call  such  light,  the  morning:  let  us  see! 
Mind  how  yt>u  grope  your  way,  though!    How  these  tall 
Naked  geraniums  straggle!     Push  the  lattice 
Behind  that  frame! — Nay,  do  I  bid  you? — Sebald, 
It  shakes  the  dust  down  on  me!    Why,  of  course 
The  slide-bolt  catches.     Well,  are  you  content, 
Or  must  I  find  you  something  else  to  spoil? 
Kiss  and  be  friends,  my  Sebald!     Is't  full  morning? 
Oh,  don't  speak  then! 

Seb.  Ay,  thus  it  used  to  be! 

Ever  your  house  was,  I  remember,  shut 
Till  mid-day;  I  observed  that,  as  I  strolled 
On  mornings  through  the  vale  here;  country  girls 
Were  noisy,  washing  garments  in  the  brook, 
Hinds  drove  the  slow  white  oxen  up  the  hills: 
But  no,  your  house  was  mute,  would  ope  no  eye! 
And  wisely:  you  were  plotting  one  thing  there, 
Nature,  another  outside.     I  looked  up — 
Rough  white  wood  shutters,  rusty  iron  bars, 
Silent  as  death,  blind  in  a  flood  of  light. 
Oh,  I  remember! — and  the  peasants  laughed 
And  said,  "The  old  man  sleeps  with  the  young  wife." 
This  house  was  his,  this  chair,  this  window — his. 

Otti.     Ah,  the  clear  morning!     I  can  see  St.  Mark's; 
That  black  streak  is  the  belfry.     Stop:  Vicenza 
Should  lie  ...  There's  Padua,  plain  enough,  that  blue! 
Look  o'er  my  shoulder,  follow  my  finger! 

Seb.  Morning? 

It  seems  to  me  a  night  with  a  sun  added. 
Where's   dew,    where's   freshness?    That   bruised   plant,    I 
bruised 


270  ROBERT  BROWNING 

In  getting  through  the  lattice  yestereve, 
Droops  as  it  did.  See,  here's  my  elbow's  mark 
I '  the  dust  o '  the  sill. 

Otti.  Oh,  shut  the  lattice,  pray! 

Seb.    Let  me  lean  out.    I  cannot  scent  blood  here, 
Foul  as  the  morn  may  be. 

There,  shut  the  world  out! 
How  do  you  feel  now,  Ottima?    There,  curse 
The  world  and  all  outside!    Let  us  throw  off 
This  mask:  how  do  you  bear  yourself?    Let's  out 
With  all  of  it. 

Otti.  Best  never  speak  of  it. 

Seb.     Best  speak  again  and  yet  again  of  it, 
Till  words  cease  to  be  more  than  words.     "His  blood," 
For  instance — let  those  two  words  mean  "His  blood" 
And  nothing  more.    Notice,I'll  say  them  now, 
"His  blood." 

Otti.  Assuredly  if  I  repented 

The  deed— 

Seb.  Repent?    Who  should  repent,  or  why? 

What  puts  that  in  your  head?     Did  I  once  say 
That  I  repented? 

Otti.  No;  I  said  the  deed  .  .  . 

Seb.     "The  deed"  and  "the  event" — just  now  it  was 
"Our  passion's  fruit" — the  devil  take  such  cant! 
Say,  once  and  always,  Luca  was  a  wittol, 
I  am  his  cut-throat,  you  are   .    .    . 

Otti.  Here's  the  wine; 

I  brought  it  when  we  left  the  house  above, 
And  glasses  too — wine  of  both  sorts.     Black?    White  then? 

Seb.     But  am  not  I  his  cut-throat?     What  are  you? 

Otti.     There  trudges  on  his  business  from  the  Duomo 
Benet  the  Capuchin,  with  his  brown  hood 
And  bare  feet;  always  in  one  place  at  church, 
Close  under  the  stone  wall  by  the  south  entry. 
I  used  to  take  him  for  a  brown  cold  piece 
Of  the  wall's  self,  as  out  of  it  he  rose 
To  let  me  pass — at  first,  I  say,  I  used: 
Now,  so  has  that  dumb  figure  fastened  on  me, 
I  rather  should  account  the  plastered  wall 
A  piece  of  him,  so  chilly  does  it  strike. 
This,  Sebald? 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  271 

Seb.  No,  the  white  wine — the  white  wine! 

Well,  Ottima,  I  promised  no  new  year 
Should  rise  on  us  the  ancient  shameful  way; 
Nor  does  it  rise.    Pour  on!    To  your  black  eyes! 
Do  you  remember  last  damned  New  Year's  day? 

Otti.    You  brought  those  foreign  prints.    We  looked  at 

them 

Over  the  wine  and  fruit.     I  had  to  scheme 
To  get  him  from  the  fire.     Nothing  but  saying 
His  own  set  wants  the  proof-mark,  roused  him  up 
To  hunt  them  out. 

Seb.  'Faith,  he  is  not  alive 

To  fondle  you  before  my  face. 

Otti.  Do  you 

Fondle  me  then!    Who  means  to  take  your  life 
For  that,  my  Sebald? 

Seb.  Hark  you,  Ottima! 

One  thing  to  guard  against.     We'll  not  make  much 
One  of  the  other — that  is,  not  make  more 
Parade  of  warmth,  childish  officious  coil, 
Than  yesterday:  as  if,  sweet,  I  supposed 
Proof  upon  proof  were  needed  now,  now  first, 
To  show  I  love  you — yes,  still  love  you — love  you 
In  spite  of  Luca  and  what's  come  to  him 
— Sure  sign  we  had  him  ever  in  our  thoughts, 
White  sneering  old  reproachful  face  and  all! 
We'll  even  quarrel,  love,  at  times,  as  if 
We  still  could  lose  each  other,  were  not  tied 
By  this:  conceive  you? 

Otti.  Love! 

Seb.  Not  tied  so  sure! 

Because  though  I  was  wrought  upon,  have  struck 
His  insolence  back  into  him — am  I 
So  surely  yours? — therefore  forever  yours? 

Otti.     Love,  to  be  wise,  (one  counsel  pays  another,) 
Should  we  have — months  ago,  when  first  we  loved, 
For  instance  that  May  morning  we  two  stole 
Under  the  green  ascent  of  sycamores — 
If  we  had  come  upon  a  thing  like  that 
Suddenly   .    .    . 

Seb.    "  "A  thing"— there  again— "a  thing!" 

Otti.     Then,  Venus '  body,  had  we  come  upon 


272  ROBERT  BROWNING 

My  husband  Luca  Gaddi's  murdered  corpse 
Within  there,  at  his  couch-foot,  covered  close — 
Would  you  have  pored  upon  it?    Why  persist 
In  poring  now  upon  it?    For  'tis  here 
As  much  as  there  in  the  deserted  house: 
You  cannot  rid  your  eyes  of  it.    For  me, 
Now  he  is  dead  I  hate  him  worse :  I  hate  .    .    . 
Dare  you  stay  here?    I  would  go  back  and  hold 
His  two  dead  hands,  and  say,  "I  hate  you  worse, 
Luca,  than  .    .    .    ' 

Seb.  Off,  off — take  your  hands  off  mine, 

'Tis  the  hot  evening — off!  oh,  morning  is  it? 

Otti]    There's  one  thing  must  be  done;  you  know  what 

thing. 

Come  in  and  help  to  carry.    We  may  sleep 
Anywhere  in  the  whole  wide  house  to-night. 

Seb.    What  would  come,  think  you,  if  we  let  him  lie 
Just  as  he  is?    Let  him  lie  there  until 
The  angels  take  him!    He  is  turned  by  this 
Off  from  his  face  beside,  as  you  will  see. 

Otti.    This  dusty  pane  might  serve  for  looking-glass. 
Three,  four — four  gray  hairs!    Is  it  so  you  said 
A  plait  of  hair  should  wave  across  my  neck? 
No — this  way. 

Seb.  Ottima,  I  would  give  your  neck, 

Each  splendid  shoulder,  both  those  breasts  of  yours, 
That  this  were  undone!    Killing!    Kill  the  world, 
So  Luca  lives  again! — ay,  lives  to  sputter 
His  fulsome  dotage  on  you — yes,  and  feign 
Surprise  that  I  return  at  eve  to  sup, 
When  all  the  morning  I  was  loitering  here — 
Bid  me  dispatch  my  business  and  begone. 
I  would  .    .    . 

Otti.  See! 

Seb.  No,  I'll  finish.     Do  you  think 

I  fear  to  speak  the  bare  truth  once  for  all? 
All  we  have  talked  of,  is,  at  bottom,  fine 
To  suffer;  there's  a  recompense  in  guilt; 
One  must  be  venturous  and  fortunate: 
What  is  one  young  for,  else?     In  age  we'll  sigh 
O'er  the  wild  reckless  wicked  days  flown  over; 
Still,  we  have  lived:  the  vice  was  in  its  place. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  273 

But  to  have  eaten  Luca's  bread,  have  worn 

His  clothes,  have  felt  his  money  swell  my  purse — 

Do  lovers  in  romances  sin  that  way? 

Why,  I  was  starving  when  I  used  to  call 

And  teach  you  music,  starving  while  you  plucked  me 

These  flowers  to  smell! 

Otti.  My  poor  lost  friend! 

Seb.  He  gave  me 

Life,  nothing  less:  what  if  he  did  reproach 
My  perfidy,  and  threaten,  and  do  more — 
Had  he  no  right?    What  was  to  wonder  at? 
He  sat  by  us  at  table  quietly: 
Why  must  you  lean  across  till  our  cheeks  touched? 
Could  he  do  less  than  make  pretence  to  strike? 
Tis  not  the  crime's  sake — I'd  commit  ten  crimes 
Greater,  to  have  this  crime  wiped  out,  undone! 
And  you — 0  how  feel  you?    Feel  you  for  me? 

Otti.    Well  then,  I  love  you  better  now  than  ever, 
And  best  (look  at  me  while  I  speak  to  you) — 
Best  for  the  crime;  nor  do  I  grieve,  in  truth, 
This  mask,  this  simulated  ignorance, 
This  affectation  of  simplicity, 
Falls  off  our  crime;  this  naked  crime  of  ours 
May  not  now  be  looked  over:  look  it  down! 
Great?  let  it  be  great;  but  the  joys  it  brought, 
Pay  they  or  no  its  price?    Come:  they  or  it! 
Speak  not!    The  past,  would  you  give  up  the  past 
Such  as  it  is,  pleasure  and  crime  together? 
Give  up  that  noon  I  owned  my  love  for  you? 
The  garden's  silence:  even  the  single  bee 
Persisting  in  his  toil,  suddenly  stopped, 
And  where  he  hid  you  only  could  surmise 
By  some  campanula  chalice  set  a-swing. 
Who  stammered — "Yes,  I  love  you?" 

Seb.  And  I  drew 

Back;  put  far  back  your  face  with  both  my  hands 
Lest  you  should  grow  too  full  of  me — your  face 
So  seemed  athirst  for  my  whole  soul  and  body! 

Otti.     And  when  I  ventured  to  receive  you  here, 
Alade  you  steal  hither  in  the  mornings — 

Seb.  When 

I  used  to  look  up  'neath  the  shrub-house  here, 


274  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Till  the  red  fire  on  its  glazed  windows  spread 
To  a  yellow  haze? 

Otti.  Ah — my  sign  was,  the  sun 

Inflamed  the  sere  side  of  yon  chestnut-tree 
Nipped  by  the  first  frost. 

Seb.  You  would  always  laugh 

At  my  wet  boots :  I  had  to  stride  thro '  grass 
Over  my  ankles. 

Otti.    Then  our  crowning  night! 

Seb.    The  July  night? 

Otti.  The  day  of  it  too,  Sebald! 

When  heaven's  pillars  seemed  o'erbowed  with  heat, 
Its  black-blue  canopy  suffered  descend 
Close  on  us  both,  to  weigh  down  each  to  each, 
And  smother  up  all  life  except  our  life. 
So  lay  we  till  the  storm  came. 

Seb.  How  it  came! 

Otti.    Buried  in  woods  we  lay,  you  recollect; 
Swift  ran  the  searching  tempest  overhead; 
And  ever  and  anon  some  bright  white  shaft 
Burnt  thro'  the  pine-tree  roof,  here  burned  and  there, 
As  if  God's  messenger  thro'  the  close  wood  screen 
Plunged  and  replunged  his  weapon  at  a  venture, 
Feeling  for  guilty  thee  and  me:  then  broke 
The  thunder  like  a  whole  sea  overhead — 

Seb.    Yes! 

Otti.     — While  I  stretched  myself  upon  you,  hands 
To  hands,  my  mouth  to  your  hot  mouth,  and  shook 
All  my  locks  loose,  and  covered  you  with  them — 
You,  Sebald,  the  same  you! 

Seb.  Slower,  Ottima! 

Otti.    And  as  we  lay — 

Seb.  Less  vehemently!     Love  me! 

Torgive  me!    Take  not  words,  mere  words,  to  heart! 
Your  breath  is  worse  than  wine.     Breathe  slow,  speak  slow! 
Do  not  lean  on  me! 

Otti.  Sebald,  as  we  lay, 

Rising  and  falling  only  with  our  pants, 
Who  said,  "Let  death  come  now!     'Tis  right  to  die! 
Right  to  be  punished!  nought  completes  such  bliss 
But  woe!"     Who  said  that? 

Seb.  How  did  we  ever  rise? 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  275 

Was't  that  we  slept?    Why  did  it  end? 

Otti.  I  felt  you 

Taper  into  a  point  the  ruffled  ends 
Of  my  loose  locks  'twixt  both  your  humid  lips. 
My  hair  is  fallen  now:  knot  it  again! 

Seb.     I  kiss  you  now,  dear  Ottima,  now  and  now! 
This  way?    Will  you  forgive  me — be  once  more 
My  great  queen? 

Otti.  Bind  it  thrice  about  my  brow; 

Crown  me  your  queen,  your  spirit's  arbitress, 
Magnificent  in  sin.     Say  that! 

Seb.  I  crown  you 

My  great  white  queen,  my  spirit's  arbitress, 
Magnificent   .    .    . 

[From  without  is  heard  the  voice  of  PIPPA,  singing — 

The  year's  at  the  spring 
And  day's  at  the  morn; 
Morning's  at  seven; 
The  hill-side's  dew-pearled; 
The  lark's  on  the  wing; 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn: 
God's  in  his  heaven — 
All's  right  with  the  world! 

[PIPPA  passes. 

Seb.     God's  in  his   heaven!     Do  you   hear  that?    Who 

spoke? 
You,  you  spoke! 

Otti.  Oh— that  little  ragged  girl! 

She  must  have  rested  on  the  step:  we  give  them 
But  this  one  holiday  the  whole  year  round. 
Did  you  ever  see  our  silk-mills — their  inside? 
There  are  ten  silk-mills  now  belong  to  you. 
She  stoops  to  pick  my  double  heartsease   .    .    .   Sh! 
She  does  not  hear:  call  you  out  louder! 

Seb.  Leave  me! 

Go,  get  your  clothes  on — dress  those  shoulders! 

Otti.   *  Sebald? 

Seb.     Wipe  off  that  paint !     I  hate  you ! 

OXi.  Miserable! 

Seb.     My  God,  and  she  is  emptied  of  it  now! 


276  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Outright  now! — how  miraculously  gone 
All  of  the  grace — had  she  not  strange  grace  once? 
Why,  the  blank  cheek  hangs  listless  as  it  likes, 
No  purpose  holds  the  features  up  together, 
Only  the  cloven  brow  and  puckered  chin 
Stay  in  their  places:  and  the  very  hair, 
That  seemed  to  have  a  sort  of  life  in  it, 
Drops,  a  dead  web! 

Otti.  Speak  to  me — not  of  me! 

Seb.     — That  round  great  full-orbed  face,  where  not  an 

angle 
Broke  the  delicious  indolence — all  broken! 

Otti.     To  me — not  of  me!     Ungrateful,  perjured  cheat! 
A  coward,  too:  but  ingrate's  worse  than  all. 
Beggar — my  slave — a  fawning,  cringing  lie! 
Leave  me!     Betray  me!     I  can  see  your  drift! 
A  lie  that  walks  and  eats  and  drinks ! 

Seb.  My  God! 

Those  morbid  olive  faultless  shoulder-blades — 
I  should  have  known  there  was  no  blood  beneath! 

Otti.     You  hate  me  then?     You  hate  me  then? 

Seb.  To  think 

She  would  succeed  in  her  absurd  attempt, 
And  fascinate  by  sinning,  show  herself 
Superior — guilt  from  its  excess  superior 
To  innocence!     That  little  peasant's  voice 
Has  righted  all  again.     Though  I  be  lost, 
I  know  which  is  the  better,  never  fear, 
Of  vice  or  virtue,  purity  or  lust, 
Nature  or  trick!  I  see  what  I  have  done, 
Entirely  now!     Oh  I  am  proud  to  feel 
Such  torments — let  the  world  take  credit  thence — 
I,  having  done  my  deed,  pay  too  its  price! 
I  hate,  hate — curse  you!     God's  in  his  heaven! 

Otti.  —Me! 

Me!  no,  no,  Sebald,  not  yourself — kill  me! 
Mine  is  the  whole  crime.     Do  but  kill  me — then 
Yourself — then — presently — first  hear  me  speak! 
I  always  meant  to  kill  myself — wait,  you! 
Lean  on  my  breast — not  as  a  breast;  don't  love  me 
The  more  because  you  lean  on  me,  my  own 
Heart's  Sebald!     There,  there,  both  deaths  presently! 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  277 

Seb.     My  brain  is  drowned  now — quite  drowned:  all  I  feel 
Is   ...  is,  at  swift-recurring  intervals, 
A  hurry-down  within  me,  as  of  waters 
Loosened  to  smother  up  some  ghastly  pit: 
There  they  go — whirls  from  a  black  fiery  sea! 

Otti.     Not  me — to  him,  0  God,  be  merciful! 

Talk  by  the  way,  while  PIPPA  is  passing  from  the  hillside  to 
Orcana.  Foreign  STUDENTS  of  painting  and  sculpture,  from 
Venice,  assembled  opposite  the  house  of  JULES,  a  young 
French  statuary,  at  Possagno. 

1st  Student.  Attention!  my  own  post  is  beneath  this 
window,  but  the  pomegranate  clump  yonder  will  hide  three 
or  four  of  you  with  a  little  squeezing,  and  Schramm  and  his 
pipe  must  lie  flat  in  the  balcony.  Four,  five — who's  a  de- 
faulter? We  want  everybody,  for  Jules  must  not  be  suffered 
to  hurt  his  bride  when  the  jest's  found  out. 

2nd  Stud.  All  here!  Only  our  poet's  away — never  having 
much  meant  to  be  present,  moonstrike  him!  The  airs  of  that 
fellow,  that  Giovacchino!  He  was  in  violent  love  with  himself, 
and  had  a  fair  prospect  of  thriving  in  his  suit,  so  unmolested 
was  it, — when  suddenly  a  woman  falls  in  love  with  him,  too; 
and  out  of  pure  jealousy  he  takes  himself  off  to  Trieste, 
immortal  poem  and  all:  whereto  is  this  prophetical  epitaph 
appended  already,  as  Bluphocks  assures  me, — "Here  a  mam- 
moth-poem lies,  Fouled  to  death  by  butterflies."  His  own 
fault,  the  simpleton!  Instead  of  cramp  couplets,  each  like  a 
knife  in  your  entrails,  he  should  write,  says  Bluphocks,  both 
classically  and  intelligibly. — /Esculapius,  an  Epic.  Cata- 
logue of  the  drugs:  Hebe's  plaister — One  strip  Cools  your  lip. 
Phoebus'  emulsion — One  bottle  Clears  your  throttle.  Mercury's 
bolus — One  box  Cures  .  .  . 

3d  Stud.  Subside,  my  fine  fellow!  If  the  marriage  was 
over  by  ten  o'clock,  Jules  will  certainly  be  here  in  a  minute 
with  his  bride. 

Hd  Stud.  Good! — only,  so  should  the  poet's  muse  have 
been  universally  acceptable,  says  Bluphocks,  et  canibus 
nostris1  .  .  .  and  Delia  not  better  known  to  our  literary  dogs 
than  the  boy  Giovacchino! 

1  And  to  our  dogs. 


278  ROBERT  BROWNING 

1st  Stud.  To  the  point,  now.  Where's  Gottlieb,  the  new- 
comer? Oh, — listen,  Gottlieb,  to  what  has  called  down  this 
piece  of  friendly  vengeance  on  Jules,  of  which  we  now  as- 
semble to  witness  the  winding-up.  We  are  all  agreed,  all 
in  a  tale,  observe,  when  Jules  shall  burst  out  on  us  in  a  fury 
by  and  by:  I  am  spokesman — the  verses  that  are  to  un- 
deceive Jules  bear  my  name  of  Lutwyche — but  each  professes 
himself  alike  insulted  by  this  strutting  stone-squarer,  who 
came  along  from  Paris  to  Munich,  and  thence  with  a  crowd  of 
us  to  Venice  and  Possagno  here,  but  proceeds  in  a  day  or 
two  alone  again — oh,  alone  indubitably! — to  Rome  and 
Florence.  He,  forsooth,  take  up  his  portion  with  these  dis- 
solute, brutalised,  heartless  bunglers ! — so  he  was  heard  to  call 
us  all.  Now,  is  Schramm  brutalised,  I  should  like  to  know? 
Am  I  heartless? 

Gott.  Why,  somewhat  heartless;  for,  suppose  Jules  a 
coxcomb  as  much  as  you  choose,  still,  for  this  mere  cox- 
combry, you  will  have  brushed  off — what  do  folks  style  it? — 
the  bloom  of  his  life.  Is  it  too  late  to  alter?  These  love- 
letters  now,  you  call  his — I  can't  laugh  at  them. 

4th  Stud.  Because  you  never  read  the  sham  letters  of  our 
inditing  which  drew  forth  these. 

Gott.     His  discovery  of  the  truth  will  be  frightful. 

4th  Stud.  That's  the  joke.  But  you  should  have  joined  us 
at  the  beginning:  there's  no  doubt  he  loves  the  girl — loves 
a  model  he  might  hire  by  the  hour! 

Gott.  See  here!  "He  has  been  accustomed,"  he  writes, 
"to  have  Canova's1  women  about  him,  in  stone,  and  the 
world's  women  beside  him,  in  flesh;  these  being  as  much  below, 
as  those  above,  his  soul's  aspiration:  but  now  he  is  to  have 
the  reality."  There  you  laugh  again!  I  say,  you  wipe 
off  the  very  dew  of  his  youth. 

1st  Stud.  Schramm!  (Take  the  pipe  out  of  his  mouth, 
somebody!)  Will  Jules  lose  the  bloom  of  his  youth? 

Schramm.  Nothing  worth  keeping  is  ever  lost  in  this 
world:  look  at  a  blossom — its  drops  presently,  having  done 
its  service  and  lasted  its  time;  but  fruits  succeed,  and  where 
would  be  the  blossom's  place  could  it  continue?  As  well 
affirm  that  your  eye  is  no  longer  in  your  body,  because  its 
earliest  favourite,  whatever  it  may  have  first  loved  to  look 

1  Great  Italian  sculptor  (1757-1822). 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  279 

on,  is  dead  and  done  with — as  that  any  affection  is  lost  to 
the  soul  when  its  first  object,  whatever  happened  first  to 
satisfy  it,  is  superseded  in  due  course.  Keep  but  ever  look- 
ing, whether  with  the  body's  eye  or  the  mind's,  and  you  will 
soon  find  something  to  look  on!  Has  a  man  done  wondering 
at  women? — there  follow  men,  dead  and  alive,  to  wonder  at. 
Has  he  done  wondering  at  men? — there's  God  to  wonder  at: 
and  the  faculty  of  wonder  may  be,  at  the  same  time,  old 
and  tired  enough  with  respect  to  its  first  object,  and  yet  young 
and  fresh  sufficiently,  so  far  as  concerns  its  novel  one.  Thus 

1st  Stud.  Put  Schramm's  pipe  into  his  mouth  again! 
There,  you  see!  Well,  this  Jules  ...  a  wretched  fribble 
— oh,  I  watched  his  disportings  at  Possagno,  the  other  day! 
Canova's  gallery — you  know:  there  he  marches  first  resolvedly 
past  great  works  by  the  dozen  without  vouchsafing  an  eye: 
all  at  once  he  stops  full  at  the  Psiche-fanciulla1 — cannot  pass 
that  old  acquaintance  without  a  nod  of  encouragement — 
"In  your  new  place,  beauty?  Then  behave  yourself  as  well 
here  as  at  Munich — I  see  you!"  Next  he  posts  himself 
deliberately  before  the  unfinished  Pieta2  for  half  an  hour 
without  moving,  till  up  he  starts  of  a  sudden,  and  thrusts  his 
very  nose  into — I  say,  into — the  group;  by  which  gesture  you 
are  informed  that  precisely  the  sole  point  he  had  not  fully 
mastered  in  Canova's  practice  was  a  certain  method  of  using 
the  drill  in  the  articulation  of  the  knee-jcint — and  that, 
likewise,  has  he  mastered  at  length!  Good-by,  therefore, 
to  poor  Canova — whose  gallery  no  longer  need  detain  his 
successor  Jules,  the  predestinated  novel  thinker  in  marble! 

5th  Stud.     Tell  him  about  the  women:  go  on  to  the  women! 

1st  Stud.  Why,  on  that  matter  he  could  never  be  super- 
cilious enough.  How  should  we  be  other  (he  said)  than  the 
poor  devils  you  see,  with  those  debasing  habits  we  cherish? 
He  was  not  to  wallow  in  that  mire,  at  least:  he  would  wait, 
and  love  only  at  the  proper  time,  and  meanwhile  put  up 
with  the  Psiche-fanciulla.  Now,  I  happened  to  hear  of  a 
young  Grt,ek — real  Greek  girl  at  Malamocco;  a  true  Islander, 
do  you  see,  with  Alciphron's3  "hair  like  sea-moss" — Schramm 
knows! — white  and  quiet  as  an  apparition,  and  fourteen 

1  Psyche  as  a  little  girl,  one  of  Canova's  best  works. 

2  Statue  of  the  Virgin  and  the  dead  Christ. 

3  Greek  rhetorician  of  the  second  century  A.  D. 


280  ROBERT  BROWNING 

years  old  at  farthest, — a  daughter  of  Natalia,  so  she  swears 
— that  hag  Natalia,  who  helps  us  to  models  at  three  lire  an 
hour.  We  selected  this  girl  for  the  heroine  of  our  jest.  So 
first,  Jules  received  a  scented  letter— somebody  had  seen  his 
Tydeus  at  the  academy,  and  my  picture  was  nothing  to  it: 
a  profound  admirer  bade  him  persevere — would  make  herself 
known  to  him  ere  long.  (Paolina,  my  little  friend  of  the 
Fenice,1  transcribes  divinely.)  And  in  due  time,  the  mys- 
terious correspondent  gave  certain  hints  of  her  peculiar 
charms — the  pale  cheeks,  the  black  hair — whatever,  in  short, 
had  struck  us  in  our  Malamocco  model:  we  retained  her  name, 
too — Phene,  which  is,  by  interpretation,  sea  eagle.  Now, 
think  of  Jules  finding  himself  distinguished  from  the  herd  of 
us  by  such  a  creature!  In  his  very  first  answer  he  proposed 
marrying  his  monitress:  and  fancy  us  over  these  letters,  two, 
three  times  a  day,  to  receive  and  dispatch!  I  concocted  the 
main  of  it:  relations  were  in  the  way — secrecy  must  be 
observed — in  fine,  would  he  wed  her  on  trust,  and  only  speak 
to  her  when  they  were  indissolubly  united?  St — st — Here 
they  come! 

6th  Stud.  Both  of  them!  Heaven's  love,  speak  softly! 
speak  within  yourselves! 

5th  Stud.  Look  at  the  bridegroom!  Half  his  hair  in 
storm  and  half  in  calm, — patted  down  over  the  left  temple, — 
like  a  frothy  cup  one  blows  on  to  cool  it:  and  the  same  old 
blouse  that  he  murders  the  marble  in. 

2d  Stud.  Not  a  rich  vest  like  yours,  Hannibal  Scratchy!2 
rich,  that  your  face  may  the  better  set  it  off. 

6th  Stud.  And  the  bride!  Yes,  sure  enough,  our  Phene! 
Should  you  have  known  her  in  her  clothes?  How  magnifi- 
cently pale! 

Gott.     She  does  not  also  take  it  for  earnest,  I  hope? 

1st  Stud.  Oh,  Natalia's  concern,  that  is!  We  settle  with 
Natalia. 

6th  Stud.  She  does  not  speak — has  evidently  let  out  no 
word.  The  only  thing  is,  will  she  equally  remember  the 
rest  of  her  lesson,  and  repeat  correctly  all  those  verses  which 
are  to  break  the  secret  to  Jules? 

1  A  Venetian  theatre. 

2  Burlesque  rendering  of  the  name  of  Annibale  Caracci,  an  Italian 
painter. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  281 

Gott.     How  he  gazes  on  her!     Pity — pity! 

1st  Stud.  They  go  in:  now,  silence!  You  three, — not 
nearer  the  window,  mind,  than  that  pomegranate:  just  where 
the  little  girl,  who  a  few  minutes  ago  passed  us  singing,  is 
seated! 

II. — NOON. 

Over  Orcana.  The  house  of  JULES,  who  crosses  its  threshold 
with  PHENE:  she  is  silent,  on  which  JULES  begins — 

Do  not  die,  Phene!     I  am  yours  now,  you 

Are  mine  now;  let  fate  reach  me  how  she  likes, 

If  you'll  not  die:  so,  never  die!     Sit  here — 

My  work-room's  single  seat.     I  over-lean 

This  length  of  hair  and  lustrous  front;  they  turn 

Like  an  entire  flower  upward:  eyes,  lips,  last 

Your  chin — no,  last  your  throat  turns:  'tis  their  scent 

Pulls  down  my  face  upon  you.     Nay,  look  ever 

This  one  way  till  I  change,  grow  you — I  could 

Ch  ange  into  you,  beloved! 

You  by  me, 

And  I  by  you;  this  is  your  hand  in  mine, 
And  side  by  side  we  sit:  all's  true.     Thank  God! 
I  have  spoken:  speak  you! 

0  my  life  to  come! 

My  Tydeus  must  be  carved  that's  there  in  clay; 
Yet  how  be  carved,  with  you  about  the  room? 
Where  must  I  place  you?     When  I  think  that  once 
This  room-full  of  rough  block-work  seemed  my  heaven 
Without  you!     Shall  I  ever  work  again, 
Get  fairly  into  my  old  ways  again, 
Bid  each  conception  stand  while,  trait  by  trait, 
My  hand  transfers  its  lineaments  to  stone? 
Will  my  mere  fancies  live  near  you,  their  truth — 
The  live  truth,  passing  and  repassing  me, 
Sitting  beside  me? 

Now  speak! 

Only  first, 

See,  all  your  letters!    Was't  not  well  contrived? 
Their  hiding-place  is  Psyche's  robe;  she  keeps 
Your  letters  next  her  skin:  which  drops  out  foremost? 


282  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Ah, — this  that  swam  down  like  a  first  moonbeam 
Into  my  world! 

Again  those  eyes  complete 
Their  melancholy  survey,  sweet  and  slow, 
Of  all  my  room  holds;  to  return  and  rest 
On  me,  with  pity,  yet  some  wonder  too: 
As  if  God  bade  some  spirit  plague  a  world, 
And  this  were  the  one  moment  of  surprise 
And  sorrow  while  she  took  her  station,  pausing 
O'er  what  she  sees,  finds  good,  and  must  destroy! 
What  gaze  you  at?    Those?     Books,  I  told  you  of; 
Let  your  first  word  to  me  rejoice  them,  too: 
This  minion,  a  Coluthus,1  writ  in  red, 
Bistre  and  azure  by  Bessarion's  scribe — 
Read  this  line   .    .    .   no,  shame — Homer's  be  the  Greek 
First  breathed  me  from  the  lips  of  my  Greek  girl! 
This  Odyssey  in  coarse  black  vivid  type 
With  faded  yellow  blossoms  'twixt  page  and  page, 
To  mark  great  places  with  due  gratitude; 
"He  said,  and  on  Antinous  directed 
A  bitter  shaft"   ...  a  flower  blots  out  the  rest! 
Again  upon  your  search?     My  statues,  then! 
— Ah,  do  not  mind  that — better  that  will  look 
When  cast  in  bronze — an  Almaign  Kaiser,  that, 
Swart-green  and  gold,  with  truncheon  based  on  hip. 
This,  rather,  turn  to!     What,  unrecognised? 
I  thought  you  would  have  seen  that  here  you  sit 
As  I  imagined  you, — Hippolyta,2 
Naked  upon  her  bright  Numidian  horse. 
Recall  you  this  then?     "Carve  in  bold  relief" — 
So  you  commanded — "carve,  against  I  come, 
A  Greek,  in  Athens,  as  our  fashion  was, 
Feasting,  bay-filleted  and  thunder-free,3 
Who  rises  'neath  the  lifted  myrtle-branch. 
'Praise  those  who  slew  Hipparchus!'4  cry  the  guests, 


1  A  sixth  century  Greek  poet,  who  wrote  a  poem  "The  Rape  of 
Helen,"  found  by  Besarion,  a  fifteenth  century  Greek  cardinal. 

2  Queen  of  the  Arnazons. 

3  I.  e.  crowned  with  laurel,  a  supposed  protection  against  lightning. 

4  Athenian  tyrant,  slain  in  514  B.  C.  by  Harmodius  and  Aristo- 
Keiton. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  283 

While  o'er  thy  head  the  singer's  myrtle  waves 
As  erst  above  our  champion:  stand  up,  all!," 
See,  I  have  laboured  to  express  your  thought. 
Quite  round,  a  cluster  of  mere  hands  and  arms 
(Thrust  in  all  senses,  all  ways,  from  all  sides, 
Only  consenting  at  the  branches'  end 
They  strain  toward)  serves  for  frame  to  a  sole  face, 
The  Praiser's,  in  the  centre:  who  with  eyes 
Sightless,  so  bend  they  back  to  light  inside 
His  brain  where  visionary  forms  throng  up, 
Sings,  minding  not  that  palpitating  arch 
Of  hands  and  arms,  nor  the  quick  drip  of  wine 
From  the  drenched  leaves  o'erhead,  not  crowns  cast  off, 
Violet  and  parsley  crowns  to  trample  on — 
Sings,  pausing  as  the  patron-ghosts  approve, 
Devoutly  their  unconquerable  hymn. 
But  you  must  say  a  "well"  to  that — say  "well!" 
Because  you  gaze — am  I  fantastic,  sweet? 
Gaze  like  my  very  life's-stuff ,  marble — marbly 
Even  to  the  silence!     Why,  before  I  found 
The  real  flesh  Phene,  I  inured  myself 
To  see,  throughout  all  nature,  varied  stuff 
For  better  nature's  birth  by  means  of  art: 
With  me,  each  substance  tended  to  one  form 
Of  beauty — to  the  human  archetype — 
On  every  side  occurred  suggestive  germs 
Of  that — the  tree,  the  flower — or  take  the  fruit, — 
Some  rosy  shape,  continuing  the  peach, 
Curved  beewise  o'er  its  bough;  as  rosy  limbs, 
Depending,  nestled  in  the  leaves;  and  just 
From  a  cleft  rose-peach  the  whole  Dryad  sprang. 
But  of  the  stuffs  one  can  be  master  of, 
How  I  divined  their  capabilities! 
From  the  soft-rinded  smoothening  facile  chalk 
That  yields  your  outline  to  the  air's  embrace, 
Half-softened  by  a  halo's  pearly  gloom; 
Down  to  the  crisp  imperious  steel,  so  sure 
To  cut  its  one  confided  thought  clean  out 
Of  all  the  world.     But  marble! — 'neath  my  tools 
More  pliable  than  jelly — as  it  were 
Some  clear  primordial  creature  dug  from  depths 
In  the  earth's  heart,  where  itself  breeds  itself, 


284  ROBERT  BROWNING 

And  whence  all  baser  substance  may  be  worked; 
Refine  it  off  to  air,  you  may, — condense  it 
Down  to  the  diamond; — is  not  metal  there, 
When  o'er  the  sudden  specks  my  chisel  trips? 
— Not  flesh,  as  flake  off  flake  I  scale,  approach, 
Lay  bare  those  blueish  veins  of  blood  asleep? 
Lurks  flame  in  no  strange  windings  where,  surprised 
By  the  swift  implement  sent  home  at  once, 
Flushes  and  glowings  radiate  and  hover 
About  its  track? 

Phene?  what— why  is  this? 
That  whitening  cheek,  those  still-dilating  eyes! 
Ay,  you  will  die — I  knew  that  you  would  die! 

PHENE  begins,  on  his  having  long  remained  silent, 

Now  the  end's  coming;  to  be  sure,  it  must 
Have  ended  sometime!     Tush,  why  need  I  speak 
Their  foolish  speech?     I  cannot  bring  to  mind 
One  half  of  it,  beside;  and  do  not  care 
For  old  Natalia  now,  nor  any  of  them. 
Oh,  you — what  are  you? — if  I  do  not  try 
To  say  the  words  Natalia  made  me  learn, 
To  please  your  friends, — it  is  to  keep  myself 
Where  your  voice  lifted  me,  by  letting  that 
Proceed:  but  can  it?     Even  you,  perhaps, 
Cannot  take  up,  now  you  have  once  let  fall, 
The  music's  life,  and  me  along  with  that — 
No,  or  you  would!     We'll  stay,  then,  as  we  are: 
Above  the  world. 

You  creature  with  the  eyes! 
If  I  could  look  forever  up  to  them, 
As  now  you  let  me, — I  believe,  all  sin, 
All  memory  of  wrong  done,  suffering  borne, 
Would  drop  down,  low  and  lower,  to  the  earth 
Whence  all  that's  low  comes,  and  there  touch  and  stay 
— Never  to  overtake  the  rest  of  me, 
All  that,  unspotted,  reaches  up  to  you, 
Drawn  by  those  eyes!     What  rises  is  myself, 
Not  me  the  shame  and  suffering;  but  they  sink, 
Are  left,  I  rise  above  them.     Keep  me  so, 
Above  the  world! 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  285 

But  you  sink,  for  your  eyes 

Are  altering — altered!     Stay — " I  love  you,  love "   .    .    . 
I  could  prevent  it  if  I  understood: 
More  of  your  words  to  me:  was't  in  the  tone 
Or  the  words,  your  power? 

Or  stay — I  will  repeat 

Their  speech,  if  that  contents  you!     Only  change 
No  more,  and  I  shall  find  it  presently 
Far  back  here,  in  the  brain  yourself  filled  up. 
Natalia  threatened  me  that  harm  should  follow 
Unless  I  spoke  their  lesson  to  the  end, 
But  harm  to  me,  I  thought  she  meant,  not  you. 
Your  friends, — Natalia  said  they  were  your  friends 
And  meant  you  well, — because  I  doubted  it, 
Observing  (what  was  very  strange  to  see) 
On  every  face,  so  different  in  all  else, 
The  same  smile  girls  like  me  are  used  to  bear, 
But  never  men,  men  cannot  stoop  so  low; 
Yet  your  friends,  speaking  of  you,  used  that  smile, 
That  hateful  smirk  of  boundless  self-conceit 
Which  seems  to  take  possession  of  the  world 
And  make  of  God  a  tame  confederate, 
Purveyor  to  their  appetites   .    .    .  you  know! 
But  still  Natalia  said  they  were  your  friends, 
And  they  assented  though  they  smiled  the  more, 
And  all  came  round  me, — that  thin  Englishman 
With  light  lank  hair  seemed  leader  of  the  rest; 
He  held  a  paper — "What  we  want,"  said  he, 
Ending  some  explanation  to  his  friends — 
"Is  something  slow,  involved  and  mystical, 
To  hold  Jules  long  in  doubt,  yet  take  his  taste 
And  lure  him  on  until,  at  innermost 
Where  he  seeks  sweetness'  soul,  he  may  find — this! 
— As  in  the  apple's  core,  the  noisome  fly: 
For  insects  on  the  rind  are  seen  at  once, 
And  brushed  aside  as  soon,  but  this  is  found 
Ony  when  on  the  lips  or  loathing  tongue." 
And  so  he  read  what  I  have  got  by  heart: 
I'll  speak  it, — "Do  not  die,  love!     I  am  yours"   .    .    . 
No — is  not  that,  or  like  that,  part  of  words 
Yourself  began  by  speaking?     Strange  to  lose 
What  costs  much  pains  to  learn!     Is  this  more  right? 


286  ROBERT  BROWNING 

I  am  a  painter  who  cannot  paint; 

In  my  life,  a  devil  rather  than  saint; 

In  my  brain,  as  poor  a  creature  too: 

No  end  to  all  I  cannot  do! 

Yet  do  one  thing  at  least  I  can — 

Love  a  man  or  hate  a  man 

Supremely:  thus  my  lore  began. 

Through  the  Valley  of  Love  I  went, 

In  the  lovingest  spot  to  abide, 

And  just  on  the  verge  where  I  pitched  my  tent, 

I  found  Hate  dwelling  beside. 

(Let  the  Bridegroom  ask  what  the  painter  meant, 

Of  his  Bride,  of  the  peerless  Bride!) 

And  further,  I  traversed  Hate's  grove, 

In  the  hatefullest  nook  to  dwell; 

But  lo,  where  I  flung  myself  prone,  couched  Love 

Where  the  shadow  threefold  fell. 

(The  meaning — those  black  bride' s-eyes  above, 

Not  a  painter's  lips  should  tell!) 

"And  here,"  said  he,  "Jules  probably  will  ask, 
'You  have  black  eyes,  Love, — you  are,  sure  enough, 
My  peerless  bride, — then  do  you  tell  indeed 
What  needs  some  explanation!     What  means  this?'  ' 
— And  I  am  to  go  on,  without  a  word — 

So,  I  grew  wise  in  Love  and  Hate, 

From  simple  that  I  was  of  late. 

Once,  when  I  loved,  I  would  enlace 

Breast,  eyelids,  hands,  feet,  form  and  face 

Of  her  I  loved,  in  one  embrace — 

As  if  by  mere  love  I  could  love  immensely! 

Once,  when  I  hated,  I  would  plunge 

My  sword,  and  wipe  with  the  first  lunge 

My  foe's  whole  life  out  like  a  sponge — 

As  if  by  mere  hate  I  could  hate  intensely! 

But  now  I  am  wiser,  know  better  the  fashion 

How  passion  seeks  aid  from  its  opposite  passion: 

And  if  I  see  cause  to  love  more,  hate  more 

Than  ever  man  loved,  ever  hated  before — 

And  seek  in  the  Valley  of  Love 

The  nest,  or  the  nook  in  Hate's  Grove 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  287 

Where  my  soul  may  surely  reach 

The  essence,  nought  less,  of  each, 

The  Hate  of  all  Hates,  the  Love 

Of  all  Loves,  in  the  Valley  or  Grove, — 

/  find  them  the  very  reorders 

Each  of  the  other's  borders. 

When  I  love  most,  Lore  is  disguised 

In  Hate;  and  when  Hate  is  surprised 

In  Love,  then  I  hate  most:  ask 

How  Love  smiles  through  Hate's  iron  casque, 

Hate  grins  through  Love's  rose-braided  mask, — 

And  how,  having  hated  thee, 

I  sought  long  and  painfully 

To  reach  thy  heart,  nor  prick 

The  skin  but  pierce  to  the  quick — . 

Ask  this,  my  Jules,  and  be  answered  straight 

By  thy  bride — how  the  painter  Lutwyche  can  hate! 

JULES  interposes. 

Lutwyche!     Who  else?     But  all  of  them,  no  doubt, 
Hated  me:  they  at  Venice — presently 
Their  turn,  however!     You  I  shall  not  meet: 
If  I  dreamed,  saying  this  would  wake  me. 

Keep 

What's  here,  the  gold — we  cannot  meet  again, 
Consider!  and  the  money  was  but  meant 
For  two  years'  travel,  which  is  over  now, 
All  chance  or  hope  or  care  or  need  of  it. 
This — and  what  comes  from  selling  these,  my  casts 
And  books  and  medals,  except   ...  let  them  go 
Together,  so  the  produce  keeps  you  safe 
Out  of  Natalia's  clutches!     If  by  chance 
(For  all's  chance  here)  I  should  survive  the  gang 
At  Venice,  root  out  all  fifteen  of  them, 
We  might  meet  somewhere,  since  the  world  is  wide. 

From  without  is  heard  the  voice  of  PIPPA,  singing — 

Give  her  but  a  least  excuse  to  love  me! 

When — where — 

How — can  this  arm  establish  her  above  me, 


288  ROBERT  BROWNING 

If  fortune  fixed  her  as  my  lady  there, 

There  already,  to  eternally  reprove  me? 

("Hist!" — said  Kate  the  queen;1 

But  "Oh!"  cried  the  maiden,  binding  her  tresses, 

"'Tis  only  a  page  that  carols  unseen, 

Crumbling  your  hounds  their  messes!") 

Is  she  wronged? — To  the  rescue  of  her  honor, 

My  heart! 

Is  she  poor? — What  costs  it  to  be  styled  a  donor? 

Merely  an  earth  to  cleave,  a  sea  to  part. 

But  that  fortune  should  have  thrust  all  this  upon  her! 

("Nay,  list!" — bade  Kate  the  queen; 

And  still  cried  the  maiden,  binding  her  tresses, 

'"Tis  only  a  page  that  carols  unseen, 

Fitting  your  hawks  their  jesses! ") 

[PIPPA  passes, 

JULES  resumes. 

What  name  was  that  the  little  girl  sang  forth? 
Kate?    The  Cornaro,  doubtless,  who  renounced 
The  crown  of  Cyprus  to  be  lady  here 
At  Asolo,  where  still  her  memory  stays, 
And  peasants  sing  how  once  a  certain  page 
Pined  for  the  grace  of  her  so  far  above 
His  power  of  doing  good  to,  "Kate  the  Queen — 
She  never  could  be  wronged,  be  poor,"  he  sighed, 
"Need  him  to  help  her!" 

Yes,  a  bitter  thing 

To  see  our  lady  above  all  need  of  us; 
Yet  so  we  look  ere  we  will  love ;  not  I, 
But  the  world  looks  so.     If  whoever  loves 
Must  be,  in  some  sort,  god  or  worshipper, 
The  blessing  or  the  blest  one,  queen  or  page, 
Why  should  we  always  choose  the  page's  part? 
Here  is  a  woman  with  utter  need  of  me, — 
I  find  myself  queen  here,  it  seems! 

How  strange! 
Look  at  the  woman  here  with  the  new  soul, 

1Caterina   Cornaro    (1454-1510).    who,    having    been    forced     to 
abdicate  the  throne  of  Cyprus,  lived  at  Asolo. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  289 

Like  my  own  Psyche — fresh  upon  her  lips 
Alit,  the  visionary  butterfly, 
Waiting  my  word  to  enter  and  make  bright, 
Or  flutter  off  and  leave  all  blank  as  first. 
This  body  had  no  soul  before,  but  slept 
Or  stirred,  was  beauteous  or  ungainly,  free 
From  taint  or  foul  with  stain,  as  outward  things 
Fastened  their  image  on  its  passiveness: 
Now,  it  will  wake,  feel,  live — or  die  again! 
Shall  to  produce  form  out  of  unshaped  stuff 
Be  Art — and  further,  to  evoke  a  soul 
From  form  be  nothing?     This  new  soul  is  mine! 

Now,  to  kill  Lutwyche,  what  would  that  do? — save 
A  wretched  dauber,  men  will  hoot  to  death 
Without  me,  from  their  hooting.     Oh,  to  hear 
God's  voice  plain  as  I  heard  it  first,  before 
They  broke  in  with  their  laughter!     I  heard  them 
Henceforth,  not  God. 

To  Ancona — Greece — some  isle! 
I  wanted  silence  only;  there  is  clay 
Everywhere.     One  may  do  whate'er  one  likes 
In  Art :  the  only  thing  is,  to  make  sure 
That  one  does  like  it — which  takes  pains  to  know. 

Scatter  all  this,  my  Phene — this  mad  dream! 
Who,  what  is  Lutwyche,  what  Natalia's  friends, 
What  the  whole  world  except  our  love — my  own, 
Own  Phene?     But  I  told  you,  did  I  not, 
Ere  night  we  travel  for  your  land — some  isle 
With  the  sea's  silence  on  it?     Stand  aside — 
I  do  but  break  these  paltry  models  up 
To  begin  Art  afresh.     Meet  Lutwyche,  I — 
And  save  him  from  my  statue  meeting  him? 
Some  unsuspected  isle  in  the  far  seas! 
Like  a  god  going  through  his  world,  there  stands 
One  mountain  for  a  moment  in  the  dusk, 
Whole  brotherhoods  of  cedars  on  its  brow: 
And  you  are  ever  by  me  while  I  gaze 
— Are  in  my  arms  as  now — as  now — as  now! 
Some  unsuspected  isle  in  the  far  seas' 
Some  unsuspected  isle  in  far-off  seas! 


290  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Talk  by  the  way,  while  PIPPA  is  passing  from  Orcana  to  the 
Turret.  Two  or  three  of  the  Austrian  Police  loitering  with 
BLUPHOCKS,  an  English  vagabond,  just  in  view  of  the  Turret. 

Bluphocks.  So,  that  is  your  Pippa,  the  little  girl  who 
passed  us  singing?  Well,  your  Bishop's  Intendant's  money 
shall  be  honestly  earned: — now,  don't  make  me  that  sour 
face  because  I  bring  the  Bishop's  name  into  the  business; 
we  know  he  can  have  nothing  to  do  with  such  horrors:  we 
know  that  he  is  a  saint  and  all  that  a  bishop  should  be,  who 
is  a  great  man  beside.  Oh  were  but  every  worm  a  maggot, 
Every  fly  a  grig,  Every  bough  a  Christmas  faggot,  Every  tune 
a  jig!  In  fact,  I  have  abjured  all  religions;  but  the  last  I 
inclined  to  was  the  Armenian:  for  I  have  travelled,  do  you 
see,  and  at  Koenigsberg,  Prussia  Improper  (so  styled  because 
there's  a  sort  of  bleak  hungry  sun  there),  you  might  remark, 
over  a  venerable  house-porch,  a  certain  Chaldee  inscription; 
and  brief  as  it  is,  a  mere  glance  at  it  used  absolutely  to  change 
the  mood  of  every  bearded  passenger.  In  they  turned,  one 
and  all;  the  young  and  lightsome,  with  no  irreverent  pause, 
the  aged  and  decrepit,  with  a  sensible  alacrity:  'twas  the 
Grand  Rabbi's  abode,  in  short.  Struck  with  curiosity,  I  lost 
no  time  in  learning  Syriac — (these  are  vowels,  you  dogs, — 
follow  my  stick's  end  in  the  mud — Celarcnt,  Darii,  Ferio1!)  and 
one  morning  presented  myself,  spelling-book  in  hand,  a,  b,  c, — 
I  picked  it  out  letter  by  letter,  and  what  was  the  purport  of 
this  miraculous  posy?  Some  cherished  legend  of  the  past, 
you'll  say — "How  Moses  hocuspocussed  Egypt's  land  with  fly 
and  locust," — or,  "How  to  Jonah  sounded  harshish,  Get  thee 
up  and  go  to  Tarshish," — or,  "How  the  angel  meeting  Balaam, 
Straight  his  ass  returned  a  salaam." — In  no  wise! — "Shacka- 
brach — Boach — somebody  or  other — Isaach,  Re-cei-ver,  Pur- 
cha-ser  and  Ex-chan-ger  of — Stolen  Goods!"  So,  talk  tome 
of  the  religion  of  a  bishop!  I  have  renounced  all  bishops  save 
Bishop  Beveridge2 — mean  to  live  so — and  die — As  some  Greek 
dog-sage,  dead  and  merry,  Hellward  bound  in  Charon's  wherry, 
With  food  for  both  worlds,  under  and  upper,  Lupine-seed  and 
Hecate's  supper,  And  never  an  obolos  .  .  .  (Though  thanks  to 
you,  or  this  Intendant  through  you,  or  this  Bishop  through  his 

1  A  statement  from  a  Medieval  Latin  formula  for  the  stating  and 
reduction  of  valid  syllogisms, 

J  Calvinist  bishop  and  writer  (1626-1707). 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  291 

Intendant — I  possess  a  burning  pocketfull  of  zwanzigers)  .  . 
To  pay  the  Stygian  Ferry! 

1st  Policeman.  There  is  the  girl,  then;  go  and  deserve  them 
the  moment  you  have  pointed  out  to  us  Signer  Luigi  and 
his  mother.  [To  the  rest.]  I  have  been  noticing  a  house  yon- 
der, this  long  while:  not  a  shutter  unclosed  since  morning: 

2d  Pol.  Old  Luca  Gaddi's,  that  owns  the  silk-mills  here! 
he  dozes  by  the  hour,  wakes  up,  sighs  deeply,  says  he  should 
like  to  be  Prince  Metternich,  and  then  dozes  again,  after 
having  bidden  young  Sebald,  the  foreigner,  set  his  wife  to 
playing  draughts.  Never  molest  such  a  household,  they 
mean  well. 

Blup.  Only,  cannot  you  tell  me  something  of  this  little 
Pippa,  I  must  have  to  do  with?  One  could  make  something 
of  that  name.  Pippa — that  is,  short  for  Felippa — rhyming 
to  Panerge  consults  Hertrippa — Belicvest  thou,  King  Agrippaf 
Something  might  be  done  with  that  name. 

2d  Pol.  Put  into  rhyme  that  your  head  and  a  ripe  musk- 
melon  would  not  be  dear  at  half  a  zwanziger!  Leave  this 
fooling,  and  look  out;  the  afternoon's  over  or  nearly  so. 

3d  Pol.  Where  in  this  passport  of  Signor  Lugi  does  our 
principal  instruct  you  to  watch  him  so  narrowly?  There? 
What's  there  beside  a  simple  signature?  (That  English  fool's 
busy  watching.) 

2d  Pol.  Flourish  all  round — "Put  all  possible  obstacles  in 
his  way;"  oblong  dot  at  the  end — "Detain  him  till  further 
advices  reach  you;"  scratch  at  bottom — "Send  him  back 
on  pretence  of  some  informality  in  the  above;"  ink-spurt  on 
right-hand  side  (which  is  the  case  here) — "Arrest  him  at 
once."  Why  and  wherefore,  I  don't  concern  myself,  but  my 
instructions  amount  to  this:  if  Signor  Luigi  leaves  home 
to-night  for  Vienna — well  and  good,  the  passport  deposed 
with  us  for  our  visa  is  really  for  his  own  use,  they  have  mis- 
informed the  Office,  and  he  means  well;  but  let  him  stay  over 
to-night — there  has  been  the  pretence  we  suspect,  the  accounts 
of  his  corresponding  and  holding  intelligence  with  the  Car- 
bonari1 are  correct,  we  arrest  him  at  once,  to-morrow  comes 
Venice,  and  presently  Spielberg.2  Bluphocks  makes  the 
signal,  sure  enough!  That  is  he,  entering  the  turret  with  his 
mother,  no  doubt. 

1  An  Italian  secret  society  which  had  as  its  aim  the  freeing  of  Italy 
from  Austrian  rule. 

2  An  Austrian  prison. 


292  ROBERT  BROWNING 

III. — EVENING 

Inside  the  Turret  on  the  Hill  above  Asolo.  LUIGI  and  his 
mother  entering. 

Mother.  If  there  blew  wind,  you'd  hear  a  long  sigh,  easing 
The  utmost  heaviness  of  music's  heart. 

Luigi.     Here  in  the  archway? 

Mother.  Oh  no,  no — in  farther, 

Where  the  echo  is  made,  on  the  ridge. 

Luigi.  Here  surely,  then. 

How  plain  the  tap  of  my  heel  as  I  leaped  up! 
Hark — "Lucius  Junius!"1     The  very  ghost  of  a  voice 
Whose  body  is  caught  and  kept  by   ...   what  are  those? 
Mere  withered  wallflowers,  waving  overhead? 
They  seem  an  elvish  group  with  thin  bleached  hair 
Who  lean  out  of  their  topmost  fortress — look 
And  listen,  mountain  men,  to  what  we  say, 
Hand  under  chin  of  each  grave  earthy  face. 
Up  and  show  faces  all  of  you! — "All  of  you!" 
That's  the  king  dwarf  with  the  scarlet  comb;  old  Franz,2 
Come  down  and  meet  your  fate?     Hark — "Meet  your  fate!" 

Mother.     Let  him  not  meet  it,  my  Luigi — do  not 
Go  to  his  City!  putting  crime  aside, 
Half  of  these  ills  of  Italy  are  feigned: 
Your  Pellicos3  and  writers  for  effect, 
Write  for  effect. 

Luigi.  Hush!  say  A.  writes,  and  B. 

Mother.     These  A.'s  and  B.'s  write  for  effect,  I  say. 
Then,  evil  is  in  its  nature  loud,  while  good 
Is  silent;  you  hear  each  petty  injury, 
None  of  his  virtues;  he  is  old  beside, 
Quiet  and  kind,  and  densely  stupid.     Why 
Do  A.  and  B.  not  kill  him  themselves? 

Luigi.  They  teach 

Others  to  kill  him — me — and,  if  I  fail, 
Others  to  succeed;  now,  if  A.  tried  and  failed, 

i  Lucius  Junius  Brutus,  who  in  509  B.  C.  drove  the  last  of  the  kings 
from  Rome  and  established  the  Republic. 

1  Francis  I.,  Emperor  of  Austria  (1708-1765). 

1  Pelleco,  one  of  the  Carbonari,  suffered  imprisonment  for  eleven 
years. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  293 

I  could  not  teach  that:  mine's  the  lesser  task. 
Mother,  they  visit  night  by  night   .    .    . 

Mother.  —You,  Luigi? 

Ah,  will  you  let  me  tell  you  what  you  are? 

Luigi.     Why  not?     Oh,  the  one  thing  you  fear  to  hint, 
You  may  assure  yourself  I  say  and  say 
Ever  to  myself!     At  times — nay,  even  as  now 
We  sit — I  think  my  mind  is  touched,  suspect 
All  is  not  sound:  but  is  not  knowing  that, 
What  constitutes  one  sane  or  otherwise? 
I  know  I  am  thus — so,  all  is  right  again. 
I  laugh  at  myself  as  through  the  town  I  walk, 
And  see  men  merry  as  if  no  Italy 
Were  suffering;  then  I  ponder — "I  am  rich, 
Young,  healthy;  why  should  this  fact  trouble  me, 
More  than  it  troubles  these?"     But  it  does  trouble. 
No,  trouble's  a  bad  word:  for  as  I  walk 
There's  springing  and  melody  and  giddiness, 
And  old  quaint  turns  and  passages  of  my  youth, 
Dreams  long  forgotten,  little  in  themselves, 
Return  to  me — whatever  may  amuse  me: 
And  earth  seems  in  a  truce  with  me,  and  heaven 
Accords  with  me,  all  things  suspend  their  strife, 
The  very  cicala  laughs  "There  goes  he,  and  there! 
Feast  him,  the  time  is  short;  he  is  on  his  way 
For  the  world's  sake:  feast  him  this  once,  our  friend!" 
And  in  return  for  all  this,  I  can  trip 
Cheerfully  up  the  scaffold-steps.     I  go 
This  evening,  mother! 

Motfier.  But  mistrust  yourself — 

Mistrust  the  judgment  you  pronounce  on  him! 

Luigi.     Oh,  there  I  feel — am  sure  that  I  am  right! 

Mo'Jier.     Mistrust  your  judgment  then,  of  the  mere  means 
To  this  wild  enterprise.     Say,  you  are  right, — 
How  should  one  in  your  state  e'er  bring  to  pass 
What  would  require  a  cool  head,  a  cold  heart, 
And  a  calm  hand?     You  never  will  escape. 

Luigi.     Escape?     To  even  wish  that,  would  spoil  all. 
The  dying  is  best  part  of  it.     Too  much 
Have  I  enjoyed  these  fifteen  years  of  mine, 
To  leave  myself  excuse  for  longer  life: 
Was  not  life  pressed  down,  running  o'er  with  joy, 


294  ROBERT  BROWNING 

That  I  might  finish  with  it  ere  my  fellows 

Who,  sparelier  feasted,  make  a  longer  stay? 

I  was  put  at  the  board-head,  helped  to  all 

At  first;  I  rise  up  happy  and  content. 

God  must  be  glad  one  loves  his  world  so  much. 

I  can  give  news  of  earth  to  all  the  dead 

Who  ask  me : — last  year's  sunsets,  and  great  stars 

Which  had  a  right  to  come  first  and  see  ebb 

The  crimson  wave  that  drifts  the  sun  away — 

Those  crescent  moons  with  notched  and  burning  rims 

That  strengthened  into  sharp  fire,  and  there  stood, 

Impatient  of  the  azure — and  that  day 

In  March,  a  double  rainbow  stopped  the  storm — 

May's  warm  slow  yellow  moonlit  summer  nights — 

Gone  are  they,  but  I  have  them  in  my  soul! 

Mother.     (He  will  not  go!) 

Luigi.  You  smile  at  me !    'Tis  true, 

Voluptuousness,  grotesqueness,  ghastliness, 
Environ  my  devotedness  as  quaintly 
As  round  about  some  antique  altar  wreathe 
The  rose  festoons,  goats'  horns,  and  oxen's  skulls. 

Mother.     See  now:  you  reach  the  city,  you  must  cross 
His  threshold — how? 

Luigi.  Oh,  that's  if  we  conspired! 

Then  would  come  pains  in  plenty,  as  you  guess — 
But  guess  not  how  the  qualities  most  fit 
For  such  an  office,  qualities  I  have, 
Would  little  stead  me,  otherwise  employed, 
Yet  prove  of  rarest  merit  only  here. 
Every  one  knows  for  what  his  excellence 
Will  serve,  but  no  one  ever  will  consider 
For  what  his  worst  defect  might  serve:  and  yet 
Have  you  not  seen  me  range  our  coppice  yonder 
In  search  of  a  distorted  ash? — I  find 
The  wry  spoilt  branch  a  natural  perfect  bow. 
Fancy  the  thrice-sage,  thrice-precautioned  man 
Arriving  at  the  palace  on  my  errand! 
No,  no!     I  have  a  handsome  dress  packed  up — 
White  satin  here,  to  set  off  my  black  hair; 
In  I  shall  inarch — for  you  may  watch  your  life  out 
Behind  thick  walls,  make  friends  there  to  betray  you; 
More  than  one  man  spoils  everything.     March  straight — 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  295 

Only,  no  clumsy  knife  to  fumble  for. 

Take  the  great  gate,  and  walk  (not  saunter)  on 

Thro'  guards  and  guards — I  have  rehearsed  it  all 

Inside  the  turret  here  a  hundred  times. 

Don't  ask  the  way  of  whom  you  meet,  observe! 

But  where  they  cluster  thickliest  is  the  door 

Of  doors;  they'll  let  you  pass — they'll  never  blab 

Each  to  the  other,  he  knows  not  the  favourite, 

Whence  he  is  bound  and  what's  his  business  now. 

Walk  in — straight  up  to  him;  you  have  no  knife: 

Be  prompt,  how  should  he  scream?     Then,  out  with  you! 

Italy,  Italy,  my  Italy! 

You're  free,  you're  free!     Oh  mother,  I  could  dream 

They1  got  about  me — Andrea  from  his  exile, 

Pier  from  his  dungeon,  Gaultier  from  his  grave! 

Mother.     \Vell,  you  shall  go.     Yet  seems  this  patriotism 
The  easiest  virtue  for  a  selfish  man 
To  acquire:     he  loves  himself — and  next,  the  world — 
If  he  must  love  beyond, — but  nought  between : 
As  a  short-sighted  man  sees  nought  midway 
His  body  and  the  sun  above.     But  you 
Are  my  adored  Luigi,  ever  obedient 
To  my  least  wish,  and  running  o'er  with  love: 
I  could  not  call  you  cruel  or  unkind. 
Once  more,  your  ground  for  killing  him! — then  go! 

Luigi.     Now  do  you  try  me,  or  make  sport  of  me? 
How  first  the  Austrians  got  these  provinces   .    .    . 
(If  that  is  all,  I'll  satisfy  you  soon) 
— Never  by  conquest  but  by  cunning,  for 
That  treaty  whereby  .    .    . 

Mother.  Well? 

Luigi.  (Sure,  he's  arrived, 

The  tell-tale  cuckoo:  spring's  his  confidant, 
And  he  lets  out  her  April  purposes!) 
Or   ...    better  go  at  once  to  modern  time. 
He  has   .    .    .   they  have   ...    in  fact,  I  understand 
But  can't  restate  the  matter;  that's  my  boast: 
Others  could  reason  it  out  to  you,  and  prove 
Things  they  have  made  me  feel. 

1 1.  e.  Others  who  had  conspired  against  Austrian  tyranny. 


296  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Mother.  Why  go  tonight? 

Morn's  for  adventure.    Jupiter  is  now 
A  morning-star.     I  cannot  hear  you,  Luigi! 

Luigi.     "I  am  the  bright  and  morning-star,"1  saith  God — 
And,  "to  such  an  one  I  give  the  morning-star."2 
The  gift  of  the  morning-star!    Have  I  God's  gift 
Of  the  morning-star? 

Mother.  Chiara  will  love  to  see 

That  Jupiter  an  evening-star  next  June. 

Luigi.     True,  mother.     Well   for  those  who  live  through 

June! 

Great  noontides,  thunder-storms,  all  glaring  pomps 
That  triumph  at  the  heels  of  June  the  god 
Leading  his  revel  through  our  leafy  world. 
Yes,  Chiara  will  be  here. 

Mother.  In  June:  remember, 

Yourself  appointed  that  month  for  her  coming. 

Luigi.     Was  that  low  noise  the  echo? 

Mother.  The  night- wind. 

She  must  be  grown — with  her  blue  eyes  upturned 
As  if  life  were  one  long  and  sweet  surprise: 
In  June  she  comes. 

Luigi.  We  were  to  see  together 

The  Titian3  at  Treviso.     There,  again! 

[From  without  is  heard  the  voice  of  PIPPA,  singing — 

A  king  lived  long  ago, 

In  the  morning  of  the  world, 

When  earth  was  nigher  heaven  than  now; 

And  the  king's  locks  curled, 

Disparting  o'er  a  forehead  full 

As  the  milk-white  space  'twixt  horn  and  horn 

Of  some  sacrificial  bull — 

Only  calm  as  a  babe  new-born: 

For  he  was  got  to  a  sleepy  mood, 

So  safe  from  all  decreptitude, 

Age  with  its  bane,  so  sure  gone  by, 

1  Revelation,  22:  16. 

2  Revelation,  2 :  28. 

3  Celebrated  Venetian  painter  (about  1477-157G).     An  altar-piece 
by  him  is  in  the  Cathedral  at  Treviso. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  297 

(The  Gods  so  loved  him  while  he  dreamed) 
That,  having  lived  thus  long,  there  seemed 
No  need  the  king  should  ever  die. 

Luigi.     No  need  that  sort  of  king  should  ever  die! 

Among  the  rocks  his  city  was: 

Before  his  palace,  in  the  sun, 

He  sat  to  see  his  people  pass, 

And  judge  them  every  one 

From  its  threshold  of  smooth  stone. 

They  haled  him  many  a  valley-thief 

Caught  in  the  sheep-pens,  robber-chief, 

Swarthy  and  shameless,  beggar-cheat, 

Spy-prowler,  or  rough  pirate  found 

On  the  sea-sand  left  aground; 

And  sometimes  clung  about  his  feet, 

With  bleeding  lip  and  burning  cheek, 

A  woman,  bitterest  wrong  to  speak 

Of  one  with  sullen  thickset  brows: 

And  sometimes  from  the  prison-house 

The  angry  priests  a  pale  wretch  brought, 

Who  through  some  chink  had  pushed  and  pressed 

On  knees  and  elbows,  belly  and  breast, 

Worm-like  into  the  temple, — caught 

He  was  by  the  very  God, 

Who  ever  in  the  darkness  strode 

Backward  and  forward,  keeping  watch 

O'er  his  brazen  bowls,  such  rogues  to  catch! 

These,  all  and  every  one, 

The  king  judged,  sitting  in  the  sun. 

Luigi.     That  king  should  still  judge  sitting  in  the  sun! 

His  councillors,  on  left  and  right, 
Looked  anxious  up, — but  no  surprise 
Disturbed  the  king's  old  smiling  eyes 
Where  the  very  blue  had  turned  to  white. 
'Tis  said,  a  Python  scared  one  day 
The  breathless  city,  till  he  came, 
With  for ky  tongue  and  eyes  on  flame, 
Where  the  old  king  sat  to  judge  alway; 
But  when  he  saw  the  sweepy  hair 


298  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Girt  with  a  crown  of  berries  rare 

Which  the  God  will  hardly  give  to  wear 

To  the  maiden  who  singeth,  dancing  bare 

In  the  altar-smoke  by  the  pine-torch  lights, 

At  his  wondrous  forest  rites, — 

Seeing  this,  he  did  not  dare 

Approach  that  threshold  in  the  sun, 

Assault  the  old  king  smiling  there. 

Such  grace  had  kings  when  the  world  begun! 

[PIPPA  passes. 

Luigi.     And  such  grace  have  they,  now  that  the  world  ends ! 
The  Python  at  the  city,  on  the  throne, 
And  brave  men,  God  would  crown  for  slaying  him, 
Lurk  in  bye-corners  lest  they  fall  his  prey. 
Are  crowns  yet  to  be  won  in  this  late  time, 
Which  weakness  makes  me  hesitate  to  reach? 
'Tis  God's  voice  calls:  how  could  I  stay?     Farewell! 

Talk  by  the  way,  while  PIPPA  is  passing  from  the  Turret  to 
the  Bishop's  Brother's  House,  close  to  the  Duomo  S.  Maria. 
Poor  GIRLS  sitting  on  the  steps. 

1st  Girl.     There  goes  a  swallow  to  Venice — the  stout  sea- 
farer! 

Seeing  those  birds  fly,  makes  one  wish  for  wings. 
Let  us  all  wish;  you,  wish  first! 

2d  Girl.  I?     This  sunset 

To  finish. 

3d  Girl.     That  old — somebody  I  know, 
Grayer  and  older  than  my  grandfather, 
To  give  me  the  same  treat  he  gavo  last  week — 
Feeding  me  on  his  knee  with  fig-peckers, 
Lampreys  and  red  Breganze-wine,  and  mumbling 
The  while  some  folly  about  how  well  I  fare, 
Let  sit  and  eat  my  supper  quietly: 
Since  had  he  not  himself  been  late  this  morning 
Detained  at — never  mind  where, — had  lie  not   .    .    . 
"Eh,  baggage,  had  I  not!" — 

2d  Girl.  How  she  can  lie! 

3d  Girl.     Look  then: — bv  the  nails — 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  299 

2d  Girl.  What  makes  your  fingers  red! 

3d  Girl.     Dipping  them  into  wine  to  write  bad  words  with 
On  the  bright  table :  how  he  laughed ! 

1st  Girl.  My  turn. 

Spring's  come  and  summer's  coming.     I  would  wear 
A  long  loose  gown,  down  to  the  feet  and  hands, 
With  plaits  here,  close  about  the  throat,  all  day; 
And  all  night  lie,  the  cool  long  nights,  in  bed; 
And  have  new  milk  to  drink,  apples  to  eat, 
Deuzans  and  junetings,  leather-coats   .    .    .   ah,  I  should  say, 
This  is  away  in  the  fields — miles! 

3d  Girl.  Say  at  once 

You'd  be  at  home:  she'd  always  be  at  home! 
Now  comes  the  story  of  the  farm  among 
The  cherry  orchards,  and  how  April  snowed 
White  blossoms  on  her  as  she  ran.     Why,  fool, 
They've  rubbed  the  chalk-mark  out,  how  tall  you  were, 
Twisted  your  starling's  neck,  broken  his  cage, 
Made  a  dung-hill  of  your  garden! 

1st  Girl.  They  destroy 

My  garden  since  I  left  them?  well — perhaps 
I  would  have  done  so:  so  I  hope  they  have! 
A  fig-tree  curled  out  of  our  cottage  wall; 
They  called  it  mine,  I  have  forgotten  why, 
It  must  have  been  there  long  ere  I  was  born: 
Cric — eric — I  think  I  hear  the  wasps  o'erhead 
Pricking  the  papers  strung  to  flutter  there 
And  keep  off  birds  in  fruit-time — coarse  long  papers, 
And  the  wasps  eat  them,  prick  them  through  and  through. 

3d  Girl.     How  her  mouth  twitches!    Where  was  I? — before 
She  broke  in  with  her  wishes  and  long  gowns 
And  wasps — would  I  be  such  a  fool!  —Oh,  here! 
This  is  my  way:  I  answer  every  one 
Who  asks  me  why  I  make  so  much  of  him — • 
(If  you  say,  "you  love  him" — straight  "he'll  not  be  gulled!'') 
"He  that  seduced  me  when  I  was  a  girl 
Thus  high —  had  eyes  like  yours,  or  hair  like  yours, 
Brown,  red,  white," — as  the  case  may  be:  that  pleases! 
See  how  that  beetle  burnishes  in  the  path ! 
There  sparkles  he  along  the  dust:  and,  there — 
Your  journey  to  that  maize-tuft  spoiled  at  least! 

1st  Girl.     When  I  was  young,  they  said  if  you  killed  one 


300  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Of  those  sunshiny  beetles,  that  his  friend 

Up  there,  would  shine  no  more  that  day  nor  next. 

2d  Girl.     When  you  were  young?     Nor  are  you  young, 

that's  true. 

How  your  plump  arms,  that  were,  have  dropped  away! 
Why,  I  can  span  them.     Cecco  beats  you  still? 
No  matter,  so  you  keep  your  curious  hair. 
I  wish  they'd  find  a  way  to  dye  our  hair 
Your  colour — any  lighter  tint,  indeed, 
Than  black :  the  men  say  they  are  sick  of  black, 
Black  eyes,  black  hair! 

4th  Girl.  Sick  of  yours,  like  enough. 

Do  you  pretend  you  ever  tasted  lampreys 
And  ortolans?     Giovita,  of  the  palace, 
Engaged  (but  there's  no  trusting  him)  to  slice  me 
Polenta  with  a  knife  that  had  cut  up 
An  ortolan. 

2d  Girl.     Why,  there!  is  not  that  Pippa 
We  are  to  talk  to,  under  the  window, — quick! — 
Where  the  lights  are? 

1st  Girl.  That  she?     No,  or  she  would  sing, 

For  the  Intenclant  said   .    .    . 

3d  Girl.  Oh,  you  sing  first! 

Then,  if  she  listens  and  comes  close   .    .    .   I'll  tell  you, — 
Sing  that  song  the  young  English  noble  made, 
Who  took  you  for  the  purest  of  the  pure, 
And  meant  to  leave  the  world  for  you — what  fun ! 

2d  Girl  [sings.] 

You'll  love  me  yet! — and  I  can  tarry 

Your  love's  protracted  growing: 
June  reared  that  bunch  of  flowers  you  carry, 

From  seeds  of  April's  sowing. 

I  plant  a  heartful  now:  some  seed 

At  least  is  sure  to  strike, 
And  yield — what  you'll  not  pluck  indeed, 

Not  love,  but,  may  be,  like. 

You'll  look  at  least  on  love's  remains, 

A  grave's  one  violet: 
Your  look? — that  pays  a  thousand  pains. 

What's  death?     You'll  love  me  yet! 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  301 

3d  Girl.  [To  PIPPA,  who  approaches.}  Oh,  you  may 
come  closer — we  shall  not  eat  you!  Why,  you  seem  the 
very  person  that  the  great  rich  handsome  Englishman  has 
fallen  so  violently  in  love  with.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it. 

IV. — XIGHT 

Inside  the  Palace  by  the  Duomo,  MONSIGXOR,  dismissing 
his  Attendants. 

Mon.  Thanks,  friends,  many  thanks!  I  chiefly  desire 
life  now,  that  I  may  recompense  every  one  of  you.  Most  I 
know  something  of  already.  What,  a  repast  prepared? 
Benedido  benedicatur1  .  .  .  ugh,  ugh!  Where  was  I?  Oh, 
as  you  were  remarking,  Ugo,  the  weather  is  mild,  very 
unlike  winter- weather :  but  I  am  a  Sicilian,  you  know,  and 
shiver  in  your  Julys  here.  To  be  sure,  when  'twas  full  sum- 
mer at  Messina,  as  we  priests  used  to  cross  in  procession  the 
great  square  on  Assumption  Day,  you  might  see  our  thickest 
yellow  tapers  twist  suddenly  in  two,  each  like  a  falling  star,  or 
sink  down  on  themselves  in  a  gore  of  wax.  But  go, my  friends, 
but  go!  [To  the  Intendaiit]  Xot  you,  Ugo!  [The  others 
leave  the  apartment.]  I  have  long  wanted  to  converse  with 
you,  Ugo. 

Inten.     Uguccio — 

Mon.  .  .  .  'guccio  Stefani,  man!  of  Ascoli,  Fermo  and 
Fossombruno; — Avhat  I  do  need  instructing  about,  are  these 
accounts  of  your  administration  of  my  poor  brother's  affairs. 
Ugh!  I  shall  never  get  through  a  third  part  of  your  ac- 
counts: take  some  of  these  dainties  before  we  attempt  it, 
however.  Are  you  bashful  to  that  degree?  For  me,  a  crust 
and  water  suffice. 

Inten.     Do  you  choose  this  especial  night  to  question  me? 

Mon.  This  night,  Ugo.  You  have  managed  my  late 
brother's  affairs  since  the  death  of  our  elder  brother:  fourteen 
years  and  a  month,  all  but  three  days.  On  the  third  of 
December,  I  find  him  .  .  . 

Inten.  If  you  have  so  intimate  an  acquaintance  with 
your  brother's  affairs,  you  will  be  tender  of  turning  so  far 
back:  they  will  hardly  bear  looking  into,  so  far  back. 

'May  the  blessed  be  blessed — presumably  the  beginning  of  a  grace. 


302  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Mon.  Ay,  ay,  ugh,  ugh, — nothing  but  disappointments 
here  below!  I  remark  a  considerable  payment  made  to  your- 
self on  this  Third  of  December.  Talk  of  disappointments! 
There  was  a  young  fellow  here,  Jules,  a  foreign  sculptor  I  did 
my  utmost  to  advance,  that  the  Church  might  be  a  gainer 
by  us  both:  he  was  going  on  hopefully  enough,  and  of  a  sud- 
den he  notifies  to  me  some  marvellous  change  that  has  hap- 
pened in  his  notions  of  Art.  Here's  his  letter, — "He  never 
had  a  clearly  conceived  Ideal  within  his  brain  till  to-day. 
Yet  since  his  hand  could  manage  a  chisel,  he  has  practised 
expressing  other  men's  Ideals;  and,  in  the  very  perfection 
he  has  attained  to,  he  foresees  an  ultimate  failure:  his  uncon- 
scious hand  will  pursue  its  prescribed  course  of  old  years, 
and  will  reproduce  with  a  fatal  expertness  the  ancient  types, 
let  the  novel  one  appear  never  so  palpably  to  his  spirit. 
There  is  but  one  method  of  escape:  confiding  the  virgin  type 
to  as  chaste  a  hand,  he  will  turn  painter  instead  of  sculptor, 
and  paint,  not  carve,  its  characteristics," — strike  out,  I  dare 
say,  a  school  like  Correggio:  how  think  you,  Ugo? 

Inten.     Is  Correggio  a  painter? 

Mon.  Foolish  Jules!  and  yet,  after  all,  why  foolish? 
He  may — probably  will — fail  egregiously;  but  if  there  should 
arise  a  new  painter,  will  it  not  be  in  some  such  way,  by  a 
poet  now,  or  a  musician  (spirits  who  have  conceived  and 
perfected  an  Ideal  through  some  other  channel),  transferring 
it  to  this,  and  escaping  our  conventional  roads  by  pure 
ignorance  of  them;  eh,  Ugo?  If  you  have  no  appetite,  talk 
at  least,  Ugo! 

Inten.  Sir,  I  can  submit  no  longer  to  tin's  course  of  yours. 
First,  you  select  the  group  of  which  I  formed  one, — next  you 
thin  it  gradually, — always  retaining  me  with  your  smile, — 
and  so  do  you  proceed  till  you  have  fairly  got  me  alone  with 
you  between  four  stone  walls.  And  now  then?  Let  this 
farce,  this  chatter  end  now:  what  is  it  you  want  with  me? 

Mon.     Ugo! 

Inten.  From  the  instant  you  arrived,  I  felt  your  smile 
on  me  as  you  questioned  me  about  this  and  the  other  article 
in  those  papers — why  your  brother  should  have  given  me 
this  villa,  that  podere,1 — and  your  nod  at  the  end  meant, — 
what? 

1  Italian  for  farm. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  303 

A/on.  Possibly  that  I  wished  for  no  loud  talk  here.  If 
once  you  set  me  coughing,  Ugo!— 

Inten.  I  have  your  brother's  hand  and  seal  to  all  I  possess : 
now  ask  me  what  for!  what  service  I  did  him — ask  me! 

Mon.  I  would  better  not:  I  should  rip  up  old  disgraces,  let 
out  my  poor  brother's  weaknesses.  By  the  way,  Maffeo  of 
Forli,  (which,  I  forgot  to  observe,  is  your  true  name),  was 
the  interdict  ever  taken  off  you,  for  robbing  that  church  at 
Cesena? 

Inten.  No,  nor  needs  be:  for  when  I  murdered  your 
brother's  friend,  Pasquale,  for  him  .  .  . 

Mon.  Ah,  he  employed  you  in  that  business,  did  he? 
Well,  I  must  let  you  keep,  as  you  say,  this  villa  and  that 
podere,  for  fear  the  world  should  find  out  my  relations  were 
of  so  indifferent  a  stamp?  Maffeo,  my  family  is  the  oldest 
in  Messina,  and  century  after  century  have  my  progenitors 
gone  on  polluting  themselves  with  every  wickedness  under 
heaven :  my  own  father  .  .  .  rest  his  soul ! — I  have,  I  know, 
a  chapel  to  support  that  it  may  rest:  my  dear  two  dead 
brothers  were, — what  you  know  tolerably  well;  I,  the 
youngest,  might  have  rivalled  them  in  vice,  if  not  in  wealth: 
but  from  my  boyhood  I  came  out  from  among  them,  and  so 
am  not  partaker  of  their  plagues.  My  glory  springs  from 
another  source;  or  if  from  this,  by  contrast  only, — for  I,  the 
bishop,  am  the  brother  of  your  employers,  Ugo.  I  hope  to 
repair  some  of  their  wrong,  however;  so  far  as  my  brother's 
ill-gotten  treasure  reverts  to  me,  I  can  stop  the  consequences 
of  his  crime:  and  not  one  soldo1  shall  escape  me.  Maffeo,  the 
sword  we  quiet  men  spurn  away,  you  shrewd  knaves  pick 
up  and  commit  murders  with;  what  opportunities  the  vir- 
tuous forego,  the  villainous  seize.  Because,  to  pleasure  my- 
self apart  from  other  considerations,  my  food  would  be  millet- 
cake,  my  dress  sack-cloth,  and  my  couch  straw, — am  I 
therefore  to  let  you,  the  off-scouring  of  the  earth,  seduce  the 
poor  and  ignorant  by  appropriating  a  pomp  these  will  be 
sure  to  think  lessens  the  abominations  so  unaccountably 
and  exclusively  associated  with  it?  Must  I  let  villas  and 
poderi  go  to  you,  a  murderer  and  thief,  that  you  may  beget 
by  means  of  them  other  murderers  and  thieves?  No — if  my 
cough  would  but  allow  me  to  speak ! 

1  Penny 


304  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Inten.  What  am  I  to  expect?  You  are  going  to  punish 
me? 

Man. — Must  punish  you,  Maffeo.  I  cannot  afford  to  cast 
away  a  chance.  I  have  whole  centuries  of  sin  to  redeem, 
and  only  a  month  or  two  of  life  to  do  it  in.  How  should 
I  dare  to  say  .  .  . 

Inten.     "Forgive  us  our  trespasses"? 

Mon.  My  friend,  it  is  because  I  avow  myself  a  very 
worm,  sinful  beyond  measure,  that  I  reject  a  line  of  conduct 
you  would  applaud  perhaps.  Shall  I  proceed,  as  it  were, 
a-pardoning? — I? — who  have  no  symptom  of  reason  to  as- 
sume that  aught  less  than  my  strenuousest  efforts  will  keep 
myself  out  of  mortal  sin,  much  less  keep  others  out.  No: 
I^do  trespass,  but  will  not  double  that  by  allowing  you  to 
trespass. 

Inten.  And  suppose  the  villas  are  not  your  brother's  to 
give,  nor  yours  to  take?  Oh,  you  are  hasty  enough  just  now! 

Mon.  1,  2 — N°  3! — ay,  can  you  read  the  substance  of  a 
letter,  N°  3,  I  have  received  from  Rome?  It  is  precisely 
on  the  ground  there  mentioned,  of  the  suspicion  I  have  that 
a  certain  child  of  my  late  elder  brother,  who  would  have 
succeeded  to  his  estates,  was  murdered  in  infancy  by  you, 
Maffeo,  at  the  instigation  of  my  late  younger  brother — that 
the  Pontiff  enjoins  on  me  not  merely  the  bringing  that  Maffeo 
to  condign  punishment,  but  the  taking  all  pains,  as  guardian 
of  the  infant's  heritage  for  the  Church,  to  recover  it  parcel 
by  parcel,  howsoever,  whensoever,  and  wheresoever.  While 
you  are  now  gnawing  those  fingers,  the  police  are  engaged  in 
sealing  up  your  papers,  Maffeo,  and  the  mere  raising  my 
voice  brings  my  people  from  the  next  room  to  dispose  of 
yourself.  But  I  want  you  to  confess  quietly,  and  save  me 
raising  my  voice.  Why,  man,  do  I  not  know  the  old  story? 
The  heir  between  the  succeeding  heir,  and  this  heir's  ruffianly 
instrument,  and  their  complot's  effect,  and  the  life  of  fear 
and  bribes  and  ominous  smiling  silence?  Did  you  throttle 
or  stab  my  brother's  infant?  Come  now! 

Inten.  So  old  a  story,  and  tell  it  no  better?  When  did 
such  an  instrument  ever  produce  such  an  effect?  Either  the 
child  smiles  in  his  face;  or,  most  likely,  he  is  not  fool  enough 
to  put  himself  in  the  employer's  power  so  thoroughly:  the 
child  is  always  ready  to  produce — as  you  say — howsoever, 
wheresoever,  and  whensoever. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  305 

A/on.     Liar! 

Inten.  Strike  me?  Ah,  so  might  a  father  chastise!  I 
shall  sleep  soundly  to-night  at  least,  though  the  gallows  await 
me  to-morrow;  for  what  a  life  did  I  lead!  Carlo  of  Cesena 
reminds  me  of  his  connivance,  every  time  I  pay  his  annuity; 
which  happens  commonly  thrice  a  year.  If  I  remonstrate, 
he  will  confess  all  to  the  good  bishop— you! 

Mon.  I  see  through  the  trick,  caitiff!  I  would  you  spoke 
truth  for  once.  All  shall  be  sifted,  however — seven  times 
sifted. 

Inten.  And  how  my  absurd  riches  encumbered  me!  I 
dared  not  lay  claim  to  above  half  my  possessions.  Let  me 
but  once  unbosom  myself,  glorify  Heaven,  and  die! 

Sir,  you  are  no  brutal,  dastardly  idiot  like  your  brother  I 
frightened  to  death:  let  us  understand  one  another.  Sir,  I 
will  make  away  with  her  for  you — the  girl — here  close  at 
hand;  not  the  stupid  obvious  kind  of  killing;  do  not  speak — 
know  nothing  of  her  nor  of  me!  I  see  her  every  day — saw 
her  this  morning:  of  course  there  is  to  be  no  killing;  but  at 
Piome  the  courtesans  perish  off  every  three  years,  and  I  can 
entice  her  thither — have  indeed  begun  operations  already. 
There's  a  certain  lusty  blue-eyed  florid-complexioned  English 
knave,  I  and  the  Police  employ  occasionally.  You  assent, 
I  perceive — no,  that's  not  it — assent  I  do  not  say — but  you 
will  let  me  convert  my  present  havings  and  holdings  into 
cash,  and  give  me  time  to  cross  the  Alps?  'Tis  but  a  little 
black-eyed  pretty  singing  Felippa,  gay  silk-winding  girl.  I 
have  kept  her  out  of  harm's  way  up  to  this  present;  for  I 
always  intended  to  make  your  life  a  plague  to  you  with  her. 
'Tis  as  well  settled  once  and  forever.  Some  women  I  have 
procured  will  pass  Bluphocks,  my  handsome  scoundrel,  off 
for  somebody;  and  once  Pippa  entangled! — you  conceive? 
Through  her  singing?  Is  it  a  bargain? 

From  without  is  heard  the  voice  of  PIPPA,  singing — 

Over-head  the  tree-tops  meet, 

Flowers  and  grass  spring  'neath  one's  feet; 

There  was  nought  above  me,  nought  below, 

My  childhood  had  not  learned  to  know: 

For,  what  are  the  voices  of  birds 

— Ay,  and  of  beasts, — but  words,  our  words, 


306  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Only  so  much  more  sweet? 

The  knowledge  of  that  with  my  life  begun. 

But  I  had  so  near  made  out  the  sun, 

And  counted  your  stars,  the  seven  and  one, 

Like  the  fingers  of  my  hand: 

Nay,  I  could  all  but  understand 

Wherefore  through  heaven  the  white  moon  ranges; 

And  just  when  out  of  her  soft  fifty  changes 

No  unfamiliar  face  might  overlook  me — 

Suddenly  God  took  me. 

[PIPPA  passes. 

Mon.  [Springing  up.]  My  people — one  and  all — all — 
within  there!  Gag  this  villain — tie  him  hand  and  foot!  He 
dares  ...  I  know  not  half  he  dares — but  remove  him — 
quick!  Miserere  mei,  Domine!1  quick,  I  say! 

PIPPA'S  Chamber  again.     She  enters  it. 

The  bee  with  his  comb, 

The  mouse  at  her  dray, 

The  grub  in  his  tomb, 

Wile  winter  away; 

But  the  fire-fly  and  hedge-shrew  and  lob- worm,  I  pray, 

How  fare  they? 

Ha,  ha,  thanks  for  your  counsel,  my  Zanze! 

"Feast  upon  lampreys,  quaff  Breganze" — 

The  summer  of  life  so  easy  to  spend, 

And  care  for  to-morrow  so  soon  put  away! 

But  winter  hastens  at  summer's  end, 

And  fire-fly,  hedge-shrew,  lob- worm,  pray, 

How  fare  they? 

No  bidding  me  then  to  ...  what  did  Zanze  say? 

"Pare  your  nails  pearl  wise,  get  your  small  feet  shoes 

More  like"   .    .    .    (what  said  she?) — "and  less  like  canoes!" 

How  pert  that  girl  was! — would  I  be  those  pert 

Impudent  staring  women!     It  had  done  me, 

However,  surely  no  such  mighty  hurt 

To  learn  his  name  who  passed  that  jest  upon  me: 

No  foreigner,  that  I  can  recollect, 

1  Have  mercy  upon  me,  O  Lord! 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  307 

Came,  as  she  says,  a  month  since,  to  inspect 

Our  silk-mills — none  with  blue  eyes  and  thick  rings 

Of  raw-silk-coloured  hair,  at  all  events. 

Well,  if  old  Luca  keep  his  good  intents, 

We  shall  do  better,  see  what  next  year  brings. 

I  may  buy  shoes,  my  Zanze,  not  appear 

More  destitute  than  you  perhaps  next  year! 

Bluph  .    .    .  something!     I  had  caught  the  uncouth  name 

But  for  Monsignor's  people's  sudden  clatter 

Above  us — bound  to  spoil  such  idle  chatter 

As  ours:  it  were  indeed  a  serious  matter 

If  silly  talk  like  ours  should  put  to  shame 

The  pious  man,  the  man  devoid  of  blame, 

The  ...  ah  but — ah  but,  all  the  same, 

No  mere  mortal  has  a  right 

To  carry  that  exalted  air; 

Best  people  are  not  angels  quite: 

While — not  the  worst  of  people's  doings  scare 

The  devil;  so  there's  that  proud  look  to  spare! 

Which  is  mere  counsel  to  myself,  mind!  for 

I  have  just  been  the  holy  Monsignor: 

And  I  was  you  too,  Luigi's  gentle  mother, 

And  you  too,  Luigi! — how  that  Luigi  started 

Out  of  the  Turret — doubtlessly  departed 

On  some  good  errand  or  another, 

For  he  passed  just  now  in  a  traveller's  trim, 

And  the  sullen  company  that  prowled 

About  his  path,  I  noticed,  scowled 

As  if  they  had  lost  a  prey  in  him. 

And  I  was  Jules  the  sculptor's  bride, 

And  I  was  Ottima  beside, 

And  now  what  am  I? — tired  of  fooling. 

Day  for  folly,  night  for  schooling! 

New  Year's  day  is  over  and  spent, 

111  or  well,  I  must  be  content. 

Even  my  lily's  asleep,  I  vow: 

Wake  up — here's  a  friend  I've  plucked  you! 

Call  this  flower  a  heart's-ease  now! 

Something  rare,  let  me  instruct  you, 

Is  this,  with  petals  triply  swollen, 

Three  times  spotted,  thrice  the  pollen; 

While  the  leaves  and  parts  that  witness 


308  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Old  proportions  and  their  fitness, 

Here  remain  unchanged,  unmoved  now; 

Call  this  pampered  thing  improved  now! 

Suppose  there's  a  king  of  the  flowers 

And  a  girl-show  held  in  his  bowers — 

"Look  ye,  bud's,  this  growth  of  ours," 

Says  he,  "Zanze  from  the  Brenta, 

I  have  made  her  gorge  polenta 

Till  both  cheeks  are  near  as  bouncing 

As  her  .    .    .  name  there's  no  pronouncing! 

See  this  heightened  colour  too, 

For  she  swilled  Breganze  wine 

Till  her  nose  turned  deep  carmine; 

'Twas  but  white  when  wild  she  grew. 

And  only  by  this  Zanze's  eyes 

Of  which  we  could  not  change  the  size, 

The  magnitude  of  what's  achieved 

Otherwise,  may  be  perceived." 

Oh  what  a  drear  dark  close  to  my  poor  day! 

How  could  that  red  sun  drop  in  that  black  cloud? 

Ah  Pippa,  morning's  rule  is  moved  away, 

Dispensed  with,  never  more  to  be  allowed!] 

Day's  turn  is  over,  now  arrives  the  night's. 

Oh  lark,  be  day's  apostle 

To  mavis,  merle  and  throstle, 

Bid  them  their  betters  jostle 

From  day  and  its  delights! 

But  at  night,  brother  howlet,  over  the  woods, 

Toll  the  world  to  thy  chantry; 

Sing  to  the  bats'  sleek  sisterhoods 

Full  complines  with  gallantry: 

Then,  owls  and  bats, 

Cowls  and  twats, 

Monks  and  nuns,  in  a  cloister's  moods, 

Adjourn  to  the  oak-stump  pantry! 

[After  she  has  begun  to  undress  herself. 
Now,  one  thing  I  should  like  to  really  know: 
How  near  I  ever  might  approach  all  these 
I  only  fancied  being,  this  long  day: 
— Approach,  I  mean,  so  as  to  touch  them,  so 
As  to   .    .    .in  some  way   .    .    .   move  them — if  you  please, 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  309 

Do  good  or  evil  to  them  some  slight  way. 

For  instance,  if  I  wind 

Silk  to-morrow,  my  silk  may  bind          [Sitting  on  the  bedside. 

And  border  Ottima's  cloak's  hem. 

Ah  me,  and  my  important  part  with  them, 

This  morning's  hymn  half  promised  when  I  rose! 

True  in  some  sense  or  other,  I  suppose. 

[As  she  lies  down. 

God  bless  me!     I  can  pray  no  more  to-night. 
No  doubt,  some  way  or  other,  hymns  say  right. 

All  service  ranks  the  same  with  God — 
With  God,  whose  puppets,  best  and  worst, 
Are  we;  there  is  no  last  nor  first.  [She  sleeps. 

(1841.) 

A  BLOT  IN  THE    'SCUTCHEON 
A  TRAGEDY 

PERSONS 

MILDRED  TRESHAM. 

GUENDOLEN  TRESHAM. 

THOROLD,  EARL  TRESHAM. 

AUSTIN*  TRESHAM. 

HENRY,  EARL  MERTUON. 

GERARD,  and  other  retainers  of  LORD  TRESHAM. 

TIME,  17—. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — The  interior  of  a  lodge  in  LORD  TRESHAM'S  park. 
Many  Retainers  crowded  at  the  inndow,  supposed  to 
command  a  view  of  the  entrance  to  his  mansion.  GERARD, 
the  warrener,  his  back  to  a  table  on  which  are  flagons,  etc. 

1st  Retainer.     Ay,  do!  push,  friends,  and  then  you'll  push 

down  me! 

— What  for?  Does  any  hear  a  runner's  foot 
Or  a  steed's  trample  or  a  coach-wheel's  cry? 
Is  the  Earl  come  or  his  least  poursuivant? 


310  ROBERT  BROWNING 

But  there's  no  breeding  in  a  man  of  you 
Save  Gerard  yonder:  here's  a  half -place  yet, 
Old  Gerard! 

Gerard.         Save  your  courtesies,  my  friend. 
Here  is  my  place. 

2nd  Ret.  Now,  Gerard,  out  with  it! 

What  makes  you  sullen,  this  of  all  the  days 
I '  the  year?     To-day  that  young  rich  bountiful 
Handsome  Earl  Mertoun,  whom  alone  they  match 
With  our  Lord  Tresham  through  the  country-side, 
Is  coming  here  in  utmost  bravery 
To  ask  our  master's  sister's  hand? 

Ger.  What  then? 

2nd  Ret.     What  then?    Why,  you,  she  speaks  to,  if  she 

meets 

Your  worship,  smiles  on  as  you  hold  apart 
The  boughs  to  let  her  through  her  forest  walks, 
You,  always  favourite  for  your  no-deserts, 
You've  heard,  these  three  days,  how  Earl  Mertoun  sues 
To  lay  his  heart  and  house  and  broad  lands  too 
At  Lady  Mildred's  feet:  and  while  we  squeeze 
Ourselves  into  a  mousehole  lest  we  miss 
One  congee  of  the  least  page  in  his  train. 
You  sit  o'  one  side — "there's  the  Earl,"  say  I — 
"What  then?"  say  you! 

3d  Ret.  I'll  wager  he  has  let 

Both  swans  he  tamed  for  Lady  Mildred  swim 
Over  the  falls  and  gain  the  river! 

Ger.  Ralph, 

Is  not  to-morrow  my  inspecting-day 
For  you  and  for  your  hawks? 

4th  Ret.  Let  Gerard  be! 

He's  coarse-grained,  like  his  carved  black  cross-bow  stock. 
Ha.  look  now,  while  we  squabble  with  him,  look! 
Well  done,  now — is  not  this  beginning,  now, 
To  purpose? 

1st  Ret.         Our  retainers  look  as  fine — 
That's  comfort.     Lord,  how  Richard  holds  himself 
With  his  white  staff!     Will  not  a  knave  behind 
Prick  him  upright? 

4th  Ret.  He's  only  bowing,  fool! 

The  Earl's  man  bent  us  lower  by  this  much. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  311 

1st  Ret.     That's  comfort.     Here's  a  very  cavalcade! 

Srd  Ret.     I  don't  see  wherefore  Richard,  and  his  troop 
Of  silk  and  silver  varlets  there,  should  find 
Their  perfumed  selves  so  indispensable 
Oh  high  days,  holidays!     Would  it  so  disgrace 
Our  family,  if  I,  for  instance,  stood — 
In  my  right  hand  a  cast  of  Swedish  hawks, 
A  leash  of  greyhounds  in  my  left? — 

Ger.  —With  Hugh 

The  logman  for  supporter,  in  his  right 
The  bill-hook,  in  his  left  the  brushwood-shears! 

Srd  Ret.     Out  on  you,  crab!     What  next,  what  next? 
The  Earl! 

1st  Ret.     Oh  Walter,  groom,  our  horses,  do  they  match 
The  Earl's?    Alas,  that  first  pair  of  the  six — 
They  paw  the  ground — Ah  Walter!  and  that  brute 
Just  on  his  haunches  by  the  wheel! 

6th  Ret.  Ay— ay! 

You,  Philip,  are  a  special  hand,  I  hear, 
At  soups  and  sauces:  what's  a  horse  to  you? 
D'ye  mark  that  beast  they've  slid  into  the  midst 
So  cunningly? — then,  Philip,  mark  this  further; 
No  leg  has  he  to  stand  on ! 

1st  Ret.  No?    That's  comfort. 

2nd    Ret.     Peace,     Cook!     The    Earl    descends.     Well, 

Gerard,  see 

The  Earl  at  least!  Come,  there's  a  proper  man, 
I  hope!  Why,  Ralph,  no  falcon,  Pole  or  Swede, 
Has  got  a  starrier  eye. 

Srd  Ret.  His  eyes  are  blue: 

But  leave  my  hawks  alone! 

4th  Ret.  So  young,  and  yet 

So  tall  and  shapely! 

5th  Ret.  Here's  Lord  Tresham's  self! 

There  now — there's  what  a  nobleman  should  be! 
He's  older,  graver,  loftier,  he's  more  like 
A  House's  head! 

2nd  Ret.  But  you'd  not  have  a  boy 

— And  what's  the  Earl  beside? — possess  too  soon 
That  stateliness? 

1st  Ret.  Our  master  takes  his  hand — 

Richard  and  his  white  staff  are  on  the  move — 


312  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Back  fall  our  people— (teh! — there's  Timothy 
Sure  to  get  tangled  in  his  ribbon-ties, 
And  Peter's  cursed  rosette's  a-coming  off!) 
— At  last  I  see  our  Lord's  back  and  his  friend's; 
And  the  whole  beautiful  bright  company 
Close  round  them — in  they  go!     [Jumping  down  from  the\ 
window-bench,  and  making  for  the  table  and  its  jugs.] 

Good  health,  long  life, 
Great  joy  to  our  Lord  Tresham  and  his  House! 

6th  Ret.    My  father  drove  his  father  first  to  court, 
After  his  marriage-day — ay,  did  he! 

2nd  Ret.  God  bless 

Lord  Tresham,  Lady  Mildred,  and  the  Earl! 
Here,  Gerard,  reach  your  beaker! 

Ger.  Drink,  my  boys! 

Don't  mind  me — all's  not  right  about  me — drink! 

2nd  Ret.     [Aside.]     He's  vexed,  now,  that  he  let  the  show 

escape! 
[To  GER.]    Remember  that  the  Earl  returns  this  way. 

Ger.    That  way? 

2nd  Ret.  Just  so. 

Ger.  Then  my  way's  here.      [Goes. 

2nd  Ret.  Old  Gerard 

Will  die  soon — mind,  I  said  it!    He  was  used 
To  care  about  the  pitifullest  thing 
That  touched  the  House's  honor,  not  an  eye 
But  his  could  see  wherein:  and  on  a  cause 
Of  scarce  a  quarter  this  importance,  Gerard 
Fairly  had  fretted  flesh  and  bone  away 
In  cares  that  this  was  right,  nor  that  was  wrong, 
Such  point  decorous,  and  such  square  by  rule — 
He  knew  such  niceties,  no  herald  more: 
And  now — you  see  his  humour:  die  he  will! 

2nd  Ret.     God  help  him !     Who's  for  the  great  servants'- 

hall 

To  hear  what's  going  on  inside?     They'd  follow 
Lord  Tresham  into  the  saloon. 

3rd  Ret.  I!— 

4th  Ret.  I!— 

Leave  Frank  alone  for  catching,  at  the  door, 
Some  hint  of  how  the  parley  goes  inside! 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  313 

Prosperity  to  the  great  House  once  more! 
Here's  the  last  drop! 
1st  Ret.  Have  at  you!    Boys,  hurrah! 

SCENE  II. — A  Saloon  in  the  Mansion. 
Enter  LORD  TRESHAM,  LORD  MERTOUN;  AUSTIN,  and 

GUENDOLEN. 

Tresham.    I  welcome  you,  Lord  Mertoun,  yet  once  more, 
To  this  ancestral  roof  of  mine.     Your  name 
— Noble  among  the  noblest  in  itself, 
Yet  taking  in  your  person,  fame  avers, 
New  price  and  lustre, — (as  that  gem  you  wear, 
Transmitted  from  a  hundred  knightly  breasts, 
Fresh  chased  and  set  and  fixed  by  its  last  lord, 
Seems  to  re-kindle  at  the  core) — your  name 
Would  win  you  welcome! — 

Mertoun.  Thanks ! 

Tresh.  — But  add  to  that, 

The  worthiness  and  grace  and  dignity 
Of  your  proposal  for  uniting  both 
Our  Houses  even  closer  than  respect 
Unites  them  now — add  these,  and  you  must  grant 
One  favor  more,  nor  that  the  least, — to  think 
The  welcome  I  should  give; — 'tis  given!     My  lord, 
My  only  brother,  Austin:  he's  the  King's. 
Our  cousin,  Lady  Guendolen — betrothed 
To  Austin:  all  are  yours. 

Mer.  I  thank  you — less 

For  the  expressed  commendings  which  your  seal, 
And  only  that,  authenticates — forbids 
My  putting  from  me   ...  to  my  heart  I  take 
Your  praise   .    .    .   but  praise  less  claims  my  gratitude, 
Than  the  indulgent  insight  it  implies 
Of  what  must  needs  be  uppermost  with  one 
Who  comes,  like  me,  with  the  bare  leave  to  ask, 
In  weighed  and  measured  unimpassioned  words, 
A  gift,  which,  if  as  calmly  'tis  denied, 
He  must  withdraw,  content  upon  his  cheek, 
Despair  within  his  soul.     That  I  dare  ask 
Firmly,  near  boldly,  near  with  confidence 


314  ROBERT  BROWNING 

That  gift,  I  have  to  thank  you.    Yes,  Lord  Tresham, 

I  love  your  sister — as  you'd  have  one  love 

That  lady  ...  oh  more,  more  I  love  her!    Wealth, 

Rank,  all  the  world  thinks  me,  they're  yours,  you  know, 

To  hold  or  part  with,  at  your  choice — but  grant 

My  true  self,  me  without  a  rood  of  land, 

A  piece  of  gold,  a  name  of  yesterday, 

Grant  me  that  lady,  and  you   .    .    .  Death  or  life? 

Guendolen  [apart  to  AUSTIN.]    Why,  this  is  loving,  Austin! 

Aus.  He's  so  young! 

Guen.     Young?     Old  enough,  I  think,  to  half  surmise 
He  never  had  obtained  an  entrance  here, 
Were  all  this  fear  and  trembling  needed. 

Aus.  Hush! 

He  reddens. 

Guen.  Mark  him,  Austin;  that's  true  love! 

Ours  must  begin  again. 

Tresh.  We'll  sit,  my  lord. 

Ever  with  best  desert  goes  diffidence. 
I  may  speak  plainly  nor  be  misconceived. 
That  I  am  wholly  satisfied  with  you 
On  this  occasion,  when  a  falcon's  eye 
Were  dull  compared  with  mine  to  search  out  faults, 
Is  somewhat.     Mildred's  hand  is  hers  to  give 
Or  to  refuse. 

Mer.  But  you,  you  grant  my  suit? 

I  have  your  word  if  hers? 

Tresh.  My  best  of  words 

If  hers  encourage  you.     I  trust  it  will. 
Have  you  seen  Lady  Mildred,  by  the  way? 

Mer.     I   ...   I   ...   our    two    demesnes,    remember, 

touch; 

I  have  been  used  to  wander  carelessly 
After  my  stricken  game:  the  heron  roused 
Deep  in  my  woods,  has  trailed  its  broken  wing 
Thro'  thicks  and  glades  a  mile  in  yours, — or  else 
Some  eyass  ill-reclaimed  has  taken  flight 
And  lured  me  after  her  from  tree  to  tree, 
I  marked  not  whither.     I  have  come  upon 
The  Lady's  wondrous  beauty  unaware, 
And — and  then  ...   I  have  seen  her. 

Guen.  [aside  to  Aus.]  Note  that  mode 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  315 

Of  faultering  out  that,  when  a  lady  passed. 
He,  having  eyes,  did  see  her!     You  had  said — 
"On  such  a  day  I  scanned  her,  head  to  foot; 
Observed  a  red,  where  red  should  not  have  been, 
Outside  her  elbow;  but  was  pleased  enough 
Upon  the  whole."     Let  such  irreverent  talk 
Be  lessoned  for  the  future! 

Tresh.  What's  to  say 

May  be  said  briefly.     She  has  never  known 
A  mother's  care;  I  stand  for  father  too. 
Here  beauty  is  not  strange  to  you,  it  seems — 
You  cannot  know  the  good  and  tender  heart, 
Its  girl's  trust  and  its  woman's  constancy, 
How  pure  yet  passionate,  how  calm  yet  kind, 
How  grave  yet  joyous,  how  reserved  yet  free 
As  light  where  friends  are — how  imbued  with  lore 
The  world  most  prizes,  yet  the  simplest,  yet 
The  .    .    .   one  might  know  I  talked  of  Mildred — thus 
We  brothers  talk! 

Mer.  I  thank  you. 

Tresh.  In  a  word, 

Control's  not  for  this  lady;  but  her  wish 
To  please  me  outstrips  in  its  subtlety 
My  power  of  being  pleased :  herself  creates 
The  wants  she  means  to  satisfy.     My  heart 
Prefers  your  suit  to  her  as  'twere  its  own. 
Can  I  say  more? 

Mer.  No  more — thanks,  thanks — no  more! 

Tresh.     This  matter  then  discussed   .    .    . 

Mer.  — We'll  waste  no  breath 

On  aught  less  precious.     I'm  beneath  the  roof 
Which  holds  her:  while  I  thought  of  that,  my  speech 
To  you  would  wander — as  it  must  not  do, 
Since  as  you  favour  me  I  stand  or  fall. 
I  pray  you  suffer  that  I  take  my  leave! 

Tresh.     With  less  regret  'tis  suffered,  that  again 
We  meet,  I  hope,  so  shortly. 

Mer.  We?  again? — 

Ah  yes,  forgive  me— when  shall   .    .    .   you  will  crown 
Your  goodness  by  forthwith  apprising  me 
When   ...   if   ...   the  Lady  will  appoint  a  day 
For  me  to  wait  on  you — and  her. 


316  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Tresh.  So  soon 

As  I  am  made  acquainted  with  her  thoughts 
On  your  proposal — howsoe'er  they  lean — 
A  messenger  shall  bring  you  the  result. 

Mer.     You  cannot  bind  me  more  to  you,  my  lord. 
Farewell  till  we  renew  ...   I  trust,  renew 
A  converse  ne'er  to  disunite  again. 

Tresh.     So  may  it  prove! 

Mer.  You,  lady,  you,  sir,  take 

My  humble  salutation! 

Guen.  and  Aus.  Thanks! 

Tresh.  Within  there! 

[Servants  enter.     TRESHAM  conducts  MERTOUN  to  the  door. 
Meantime  AUSTIN  remarks, 

Well, 

Here  I  have  an  advantage  of  the  Earl, 
Confess  now!     I'd  not  think  that  all  was  safe 
Because  my  lady's  brother  stood  my  friend! 
Why,  he  makes  sure  of  her — "do  you  say,  yes — 
She'll  not  say,  no, " — what  comes  it  to  beside? 
I  should  have  prayed  the  brother,  "speak  this  speech, 
For  Heaven's  sake  urge  this  on  her — put  in  this — 
Forget  not,  as  you'd  save  me,  t'other  thing, — 
Then  set  down  what  she  says,  and  how  she  looks, 
And  if  she  smiles,  and"  (in  an  under  breath) 
"Only  let  her  accept  me,  and  do  you 
And  all  the  world  refuse  me,  if  you  dare!" 

Guen.     That   way  you'd   take,   friend~Austin?    What  a 

shame 

I  was  your  cousin,  tamely  from  the  first 
Your  bride,  and  all  this  fervor's  run  to  waste! 
Do  you  know  you  speak  sensibly  to-day? 
The  Earl's  a  fool. 

Aus.  Here's  Thorold.     Tell  him  so! 

Tresh.  [returning.]     Now,  voices,  voices!     'St!  the  ladv's 
first! 

How  seems  he? — seems  he  not   .    .    .   come,  faith  give  fraud 
The  mercy-stroke  whenever  they  engage! 
Down  with  fraud,  up  with  faith!     How  seems  the  Earl? 
A  name!  a  blazon!  if  you  knew  their  worth, 
As  you  will  never!  come — the  Earl? 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  317 

Guen.  He's  young. 

Tresh.     What's  she?  an  infant  save  in  heart  and  brain. 
Young!     Mildred  is  fourteen,  remark!     And  you   .    .    . 
Austin,  how  old  is  she? 

Guen.  There's  tact  for  you! 

I  meant  that  being  young  was  good  excuse 
If  one  should  tax  him   .    .    . 

Tresh.  Well? 

Guen.  — With  lacking  wit. 

Tresh.     He  lacked  wit?     Where  might  he  lack  wit,  so 
please  you? 

Guen.     In  standing  straiter  than  the  steward's  rod 
And  making  you  the  tiresomest  harangue, 
Instead  of  slipping  over  to  my  side 
And  softly  whispering  in  my  ear,  "Sweet  lady, 
Your  cousin  there  will  do  me  detriment 
He  little  dreams  of:  he's  absorbed,  I  see, 
In  my  old  name  and  fame — be  sure  he'll  leave 
My  Mildred,  when  his  best  account  of  me 
Is  ended,  in  full  confidence  I  wear 
My  grandsire's  periwig  down  either  cheek. 
I'm  lost  unless  your  gentleness  vouchsafes"   .    .    . 

Tresh.     .    .    .   "To  give  a  best  of  best  accounts,  yourself, 
Of  me  and  my  demerits."     You  are  right! 
He  should  have  said  what  now  I  say  for  him. 
Yon  golden  creature,  will  you  help  us  all? 
Here's  Austin  means  to  vouch  for  much,  but  you 
—You  are   .    .    .  what  Austin  only  knows!     Come  up, 
All  three  of  us:  she's  in  the  library 
No  doubt,  for  the  day's  wearing  fast.     Precede! 

Guen.     Austin,  how  we  must — ! 

Tresh.  Must  what?     Must  speak  truth, 

Malignant  tongue!     Detect  one  fault  in  him! 
I  challenge  you! 

Guen.  Witchcraft's  a  fault  in  him, 

For  you're  bewitched. 

Tresh.  What's  urgent  we  obtain 

Is,  that  she  soon  receive  him — say,  to-morrow — 
Next  day  at  farthest. 

Guen.  Ne'er  instruct  me! 

Tresh.  Come! 

— He's  out  of  your  good  graces,  since  forsooth, 


318  ROBERT  BROWNING 

He  stood  not  as  he'd  carry  us  by  storm 

With  his  perfections!    You're  for  the  composed 

Manly  assured  becoming  confidence! 

— Get  her  to  say,  "to-morrow,"  and  I'll  give  you   .    .    . 

I'll  give  you  back  Urganda,  to  be  spoiled 

With  petting  and  snail-paces.    Will  you?    Come! 

SCENE  III. — MILDRED'S  Chamber.    A  painted  window  over- 
looks the  park.    MILDRED  and  GUENDOLEN. 

Guen.    Now,  Mildred,  spare  those  pains.     I  have  not  left 
Our  talkers  in  the  library,  and  climbed 
The  wearisome  ascent  to  this  your  bower 
In  company  with  you, — I  have  nor  dared   .    .    . 
Nay,  worked  such  prodigies  as  sparing  you 
Lord  Mertoun's  pedigree  before  the  flood, 
Which  Thorold  seemed  in  very  act  to  tell 
— Or  bringing  Austin  to  pluck  up  that  most 
Firm-rooted  heresy — your  suitor's  eyes, 
He  would  maintain,  were  gray  instead  of  blue — 
I  think  I  brought  him  to  contrition! — Well, 
I  have  not  done  such  things,  (all  to  deserve 
A  minute's  quiet  cousin's  talk  with  you,) 
To  be  dismissed  so  coolly. 

Mil.  Guendolen! 

What  have  I  done?  what  could  suggest  .    .    . 

Guen.  There,  there! 

Do  I  not  comprehend  you'd  be  alone 
To  throw  those  testimonies  in  a  heap, 
Thorold's  enlargings,  Austin's  brevities, 
\Vith  that  poor  silly  heartless  Guendolen's 
Ill-timed  misplaced  attempted  smartnesses — 
And  sift  their  sense  out?  now,  I  come  to  spare  you 
Nearly  a  whole  night's  labor.     Ask  and  have! 
Demand,  be  answered !     Lack  I  ears  and  eyes? 
Am  I  perplexed  which  side  of  the  rock-table 
The  Conqueror  dined  on  when  he  landed  first, 
Lord  Mertoun's  ancestor  was  bidden  take — 
The  bow-hand  or  the  arrow-hand's  great  meed? 
Mildred,  the  Earl  has  soft  blue  eyes! 

Mil.  My  brother — 

Did  he  ...  you  said  that  he  received  him  well? 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  319 

Guen.     If  I  said  only  "well"  I  said  not  much. 
Oh,  stay — which  brother? 

Mil.  Thorold !  who — who  else? 

Guen.    Thorold  (a  secret)  is  too  proud  by  half, — 
Nay,  hear  me  out — with  us  he's  even  gentler 
Than  we  are  with  our  birds.    Of  this  great  House 
The  least  retainer  that  e'er  caught  his  glance 
Would  die  for  him,  real  dying — no  mere  talk: 
And  in  the  world,  the  court,  if  men  would  cite 
The  perfect  spirit  of  honor,  Thorold's  name 
Rises  of  its  clear  nature  to  their  lips. 
But  he  should  take  men's  homage,  trust  in  it, 
And  care  no  more  about  what  drew  it  down. 
He  has  desert,  and  that,  acknowledgment; 
Is  he  content? 

Mil.  You  wrong  him,  Guendolen. 

Guen.    He's  proud,  confess;  so  proud  with  brooding  o'er 
The  light  of  his  interminable  line, 
An  ancestry  with  men  all  paladins, 
And  women  all   ... 

Mil.  Dear  Guendolen,  'tis  late! 

When  yonder  purple  pane  the  climbing  moon 
Pierces,  I  know  'tis  midnight. 

Guen.  Well,  that  Thorold 

Should  rise  up  from  such  musings,  and  receive 
One  come  audaciously  to  graft  himself 
Into  this  peerless  stock,  yet  find  no  flaw, 
No  slightest  spot  in  such  an  one   .    .    . 

Mil.  Who  finds 

A  spot  in  Mertoun? 

Guen.  Not  your  brother;  therefore, 

Not  the  whole  world. 

Mil.  I'm  weary,  Guendolen. 

Bear  with  me! 

Guen.  I  am  foolish. 

Mil.  Oh  no,  kind! 

But  I  would  rest. 

Guen.  Good  night  and  rest  to  you! 

I  said  how  gracefully  his  mantle  lay 
Beneath  the  rings  of  his  light  hair? 

Mil.  Brown  hair. 


320  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Guen.     Brown?  why,  it  is  brown :  how  could  you  know  that? 
Mil.     How?  did  not  you — Oh,  Austin  'twas,  declared 
His  hair  was  light,  not  brown — my  head! — and  look, 
The  moon-beam  purpling  the  dark  chamber!     Sweet, 
Good  night! 
Guen  .          Forgive  me — sleep  the  soundlier  for  me! 

[Going,  she  turns  suddenly. 
Mildred! 

Perdition!  all's  discovered!    Thorold  finds 
—That  the  Earl's  greatest  of  all  grandmothers 
Was  grander  daughter  still — to  that  fair  dame 
Whose  garter  slipped  down  at  the  famous  dance!  [Goes. 

Mil.     Is  she — can  she  be  really  gone  at  last? 
My  heart!  I  shall  not  reach  the  window.     Needs 
Must  I  have  sinned  much,  so  to  suffer. 

[She  lifts  the  small  lamp  which  is  suspended  before  the  Virgin's 
image  in  the  window,  and  places  it  by  the  purple  pane. 

There! 

[She  returns  to  the  seat  in  front. 
Mildred  and  Mertoun!     Mildred,  with  consent 
Of  all  the  world  and  Thorold,  Mertoun 's  bride! 
Too  late !     'Tis  sweet  to  think  of,  sweeter  still 
To  hope  for,  that  this  blessed  end  soothes  up 
The  curse  of  the  beginning;  but  I  know 
It  comes  too  late:  'twill  sweetest  be  of  all 
To  dream  my  soul  away  and  die  upon.  [A  noise  without. 

The  voice!     Oh  why,  why  glided  sin  the  snake 
Into  the  paradise  Heaven  meant  us  both? 

[The  window  opens  softly.  A  low  voice  sings. 

There's  a  woman  like  a  dew-drop,  she's  so  purer  than  the  purest; 
And  her  noble  heart's  the  noblest,  yes,  and  her  sure  faith's  the 

surest: 
And  her  eyes  are  dark  and  humid,  like  the  depth  on  depth  of 

lustre 
Hid  i'  the  harebell,  while  her  tresses,  sunnier  than  the  w-ild-grape 

cluster, 

Gush  in  golden-tinted  plenty  down  her  neck's  rose-misted  marble: 
Then  her  voice's  music  .    .    .   call  it  the  well's  bubbling  the  bird's 

warble! 

[A  figure  wrapped  in  a  mantle  appears  at  the  window'. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  321 

And  this  woman  says,  "My  days  were  sunless  and  my  nights 
were  moonless, 

Parched  the  pleasant  April  herbage,  and  the  lark's  heart's  out- 
break tuneless, 

If  you  loved  me  not!"  And  I  ivho — (ah,  for  words  of  flame!) 
adore  her, 

Who  am  mad  to  lay  my  spirit  prostrate  palpably  before  her — 

[He  enters,  approaches  her  seat,  and  bends  over  her. 

I  may  enter  at  her  portal  soon,  as  now  her  lattice  takes  me, 
And  by  noontide  as  by  midnight  make  her  mind,  as  hers  she 
makes  me! 

[The  Earl  throics  off  his  slouched  hat  and  long  cloak. 

My  very  heart  sings,  so  I  sing,  Beloved! 

Mil.     Sit,  Henry — do  not  take  my  hand! 

Mer.  'Tis  mine. 

The  meeting  that  appalled  us  both  so  much 
Is  ended. 

Mil.         What  begins  now? 

Mer.  Happiness 

Such  as  the  world  contains  not. 

Mil.  That  is  it. 

Our  happiness  would,  as  you  say,  exceed 
The  whole  world's  best  of  blisses:  we — do  we 
Deserve  that?     Utter  to  your  soul,  what  mine 
Long  since,  Beloved,  has  grown  used  to  hear, 
Like  a  death-knell,  so  much  regarded  once, 
And  so  familiar  now;  this  will  not  be! 

Mer.     Oh,  Mildred,  have  I  met  your  brother's  face? 
Compelled  m3rself — if  not  to  speak  untruth, 
Yet  to  disguise,  to  shun,  to  put  aside 
The  truth,  as — what  had  e'er  prevailed  on  me 
Save  you,  to  venture?     Have  I  gained  at  last 
Your  brother,  the  one  scarer  of  your  dreams, 
And  waking  thoughts'  sole  apprehension  too? 
Does  a  new  life,  like  a  young  sunrise,  break 
On  the  strange  unrest  of  our  night,  confused 
With  rain  and  stormy  flaw — and  will  you  see 
Xo  dripping  blossoms,  no  fire-tinted  drops 


322  ROBERT  BROWNING 

On  each  live  spray,  no  vapour  steaming  up, 
And  no  expressless  glory  in  the  East? 
When  I  am  by  you,  to  be  ever  by  you, 
When  I  have  won  you  and  may  worship  you, 
Oh,  Mildred,  can  you  say  "this  will  not  be"? 

Mil.     Sin  has  surprised  us,  so  will  punishment. 

Mer.    No — me  alone,  who  sinned  alone! 

Mil.  The  night 

You  likened  our  past  life  to — was  it  storm 
Throughout  to  you  then,  Henry? 

Mer.  Of  your  life 

I  spoke — what  am  I,  what  my  life,  to  waste 
A  thought  about  when  you  are  by  me? — you 
It  was,  I  said  my  folly  called  the  storm 
And  pulled  the  night  upon.     'Twas  day  with  me — 
Perpetual  dawn  with  me. 

Mil.  Come  what,  come  will, 

You  have  been  happy:  take  my  hand! 

Mer.  [after  a  pause.]  How  good 

Your  brother  is!     I  figured  him  a  cold — 
Shall  I  say,  haughty  man? 

Mil.  They  told  me  all. 

I  know  all.. 

Mer.  It  will  soon  be  over. 

Mil.  Over? 

Oh,  what  is  over?  what  must  I  live  through 
And  say,  "  'tis  over"?     Is  our  meeting  over? 
Have  I  received  in  presence  of  them  all 
The  partner  of  my  guilty  love — with  brow 
Trying  to  seem  a  maiden's  brow — with  lips 
Which  make  believe  that  when  they  strive  to  form 
Replies  to  you  and  tremble  as  they  strive, 
It  is  the  nearest  ever  they  approached 

A  stranger's   .    .    .   Henry,  yours  that  stranger's   .    .    .   lip — 
With  cheek  that  looks  a  virgin's,  and  that  is   ... 
Ah  God,  some  prodigy  of  thine  will  stop 
This  planned  piece  of  deliberate  wickedness 
In  its  birth  even!  some  fierce  leprous  spot 
Will  mar  the  brow's  dissimulating!     I 
Shall  murmur  no  smooth  speeches  got  by  heart, 
But,  frenzied,  pour  forth  all  our  woeful  story, 
The  love,  the  shame,  and  the  despair — with  them 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  323 

Round  me  aghast  as  round  some  cursed  fount 
That  should  spirt  water,  and  spouts  blood.     I'll  not 
.    .    .   Henry,  you  do  not  wish  that  I  should  draw 
This  vengeance  down?     I'll  not  affect  a  grace 
That's  gone  from  me — gone  once,  and  gone  forever! 

Mer.     Mildred,  my  honour  is  your  own.     I'll  share 
Disgrace  I  cannot  suffer  by  myself. 
A  word  informs  your  brother  I  retract 
This  morning's  offer;  time  will  yet  bring  forth 
Some  better  way  of  saving  both  of  us. 

Mil.     I'll  meet  their  faces,  Henry! 

Mer.  When?  to-morrow! 

Get  done  with  it! 

Mil.  Oh,  Henry,  not  to-morrow! 

Next  day!     I  never  shall  prepare  my  words 
And  looks  and  gestures  sooner. — How  you  must 
Despise  me! 

Mer.  Mildred,  break  it  if  you  choose, 

A  heart  the  love  of  you  uplifted — still 
Uplifts,  thror  this  protracted  agony, 
To  heaven!  but  Mildred,  answer  me, — first  pace 
The  chamber  with  me — once  again — now,  say 
Calmly  the  part,  the   .    .    .   what  it  is  of  me 
You  see  contempt  (for  you  did  say  contempt) 
— Contempt  for  you  in!     I  would  pluck  it  off 
And  cast  it  from  me! — but  no — no,  you'll  not 
Repeat  that? — will  you,  Mildred,  repeat  that? 

Mil.     Dear  Henry! 

Mer.  I  was  scarce  a  boy — e'en  now 

What  am  I  more?    And  you  were  infantine 
When  first  I  met  you;  why,  your  hair  fell  loose 
On  either  side!     My  fool's-cheek  reddens  now 
Only  in  the  recalling  how  it  burned 
That  morn  to  see  the  shape  of  many  a  dream 
— You  know  we  boys  are  prodigal  of  charms 
To  her  we  dream  of — I  had  heard  of  one, 
Had  dreamed  of  her,  and  I  was  close  to  her, 
Might  speak  to  her,  might  live  and  die  her  own, 
W7ho  knew?     I  spoke.     Oh,  Mildred,  feel  you  not 
That  now,  while  I  remember  every  glance 
Of  yours,  each  word  of  yours,  with  power  to  test 
And  weigh  them  in  the  diamond  scales  of  pride, 


324  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Resolved  the  treasure  of  a  first  and  last 

Heart's  love  shall  have  been  bartered  at  its  worth, 

— That  now  I  think  upon  your  purity 

And  utter  ignorance  of  guilt — your  own 

Or  other's  guilt — the  girlish  undisguised 

Delight  at  a  strange  novel  prize — (I  talk 

A  silly  language,  but  interpret,  you!) 

If  I,  with  fancy  at  its  full,  and  reason 

Scarce  in  its  germ,  enjoined  you  secrecy, 

If  you  had  pity  on  my  passion,  pity 

On  my  protested  sickness  of  the  soul 

To  sit  beside  you,  hear  you  breathe,  and  watch 

Your  eyelids  and  the  eyes  beneath — if  you 

Accorded  gifts  and  knew  not  they  were  gifts — 

If  I  grew  mad  at  last  with  enterprise 

And  must  behold  my  beauty  in  her  bower 

Or  perish — (I  was  ignorant  of  even 

My  own  desires — what  then  were  you?)  if  sorrow — 

Sin — if  the  end  came — must  I  now  renounce 

My  reason,  blind  myself  to  light,  say  truth 

Is  false  and  lie  to  God  and  my  own  soul? 

Contempt  were  all  of  this! 

Mil.  Do  you  believe   .    .    . 

Or,  Henry,  I'll  not  wrong  you — you  believe 
That  I  was  ignorant.     I  scarce  grieve  o'er 
The  past.     We'll  love  on;  you  will  love  me  still! 

Mer.     Oh,  to  love  less  what  one  has  injured!     Dove, 
Whose  pinion  I  have  rashly  hurt,  my  breast — 
Shall  my  heart's  warmth  not  nurse  thee  into  strength? 
Flower  I  have  crushed,  shall  I  not  care  for  thee? 
Bloom  o'er  my  crest,  my  fight-mark  and  device! 
Mildred,  I  love  you  and  you  love  me. 

Mil.  Go! 

Be  that  your  last  word.     I  shall  sleep  to-night. 

Mer.     This  is  not  our  last  meeting? 

Mil.  One  night  more. 

Mer.     And  then — think,  then! 

Mil.  Then,  no  sweet  courtship-days, 

No  dawning  consciousness  of  love  for  us, 
No  stiange  and  palpitating  births  of  sense 
From  words  and  looks,  no  innocent  fears  and  hopes, 
Reserves  and  confidences:  morning's  over! 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  325 

Mer.     How  else  should  love's  perfected  noontide  follow? 
All  the  dawn  promised  shall  the  day  perform. 

Mil.     So  may  it  be!  but — 

You  are  cautious,  Love? 
Are  sure  that  unobserved  you  scaled  the  walls? 

Mer.     Oh,  trust  me!     Then  our  final  meeting's  fixed 
To-morrow  night? 

Mil.  Farewell!     Stay,  Henry  .    .    .  wherefore? 

His  foot  is  on  the  yew-tree  bough ;  the  turf 
Receives  him:  now  the  moonlight  as  he  runs 
Embraces  him — but  he  must  go — is  gone. 
Ah,  once  again  he  turns — thanks,  thanks,  my  Love! 
He's  gone.     Oh,  I'll  believe  him  every  word! 
I  was  so  young,  I  loved  him  so,  I  had 
No  mother,  God  forgot  me,  and  I  fell. 
There  may  be  pardon  yet:  all's  doubt  beyond. 
Surely  the  bitterness  of  death  is  past. 


ACT   II 

SCENE. — The  Library. 
Enter  LORD  TRESHAM,  hastily. 

Tresham.     This  way — In,   Gerard,   quick! 

[As  GERARD  enters,  TRESHAM  secures  the  door. 

Now  speak!  or,  wait — 
I'll  bid  you  speak  directly.  [Seats  himself. 

Now  repeat 

Firmly  and  circumstantially  the  tale 
You've  just  now  told  me;  it  eludes  me;  either 
I  did  not  listen,  or  the  half  is  gone 
Away  from  me.     How  long  have  you  lived  here? 
Here  in  my  house,  your  father  kept  our  woods 
Before  you? 

Ger.  — As  his  father  did,  my  lord. 

I  have  been  eating,  sixty  years  almost, 
Your  bread. 

Tresh.  Yes,  yes.     You  ever  were  of  all 

The  servants  in  my  father's  house,  I  know, 
The  trusted  one.     You'll  speak  the  truth. 


326  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Ger.  I'll  speak 

God's  truth.    Night  after  night  .    .    . 

Tresh.  Since  when? 

Ger.  At  least 

A  month — each  midnight  has  some  man  access 
To  Lady  Mildred's  chamber. 

Tresh.  Tush,  "access"— 

No  wide  words  like  "access"  to  me! 

Ger.  He  runs 

Along  the  woodside,  crosses  to  the  South, 
Takes  the  left  tree  that  ends  the  avenue   .    .    . 

Tresh.    The  last  great  yew-tree? 

Ger.  You  might  stand  upon 

The  main  boughs  like  a  platform.     Then  he   ... 

Tresh.  Quick! 

Ger.     Climbs  up,  and,  where  they  lessen  at  the  top, 
— I  cannot  see  distinctly,  but  he  throws, 
I  think — for  this  I  do  not  vouch — a  line 
That  reaches  to  the  lady's  casement — 

Tresh.  —Which 

He  enters  not!     Gerard,  some  wretched  fool 
Dares  pry  into  my  sister's  privacy! 
When  such  are  young,  it  seems  a  precious  thing 
To  have  approached, — to  merely  have  approached, 
Got  sight  of,  the  abode  of  her  they  set 
Their  frantic  thoughts  upon.     He  does  not  enter? 
Gerard? 

Ger.     There  is  a  lamp  that's  full  i'  the  midst, 
Under  a  red  square  in  the  painted  glass 
Of  Lady  Mildred's  .    .    . 

Tresh.  Leave  that  name  out!     Well? 

That  lamp? 

Ger.  — Is  moved  at  midnight  higher  up 

To  one  pane — a  small  dark-blue  pane;  he  waits 
For  that  among  the  boughs:  at  sight  of  that, 
I  see  him,  plain  as  I  see  you,  my  lord, 
Open  the  lady's  casement,  enter  there   .    .    . 

Tresh.     — And  stay? 

Ger.  An  hour,  two  hours. 

Tresh.  And  this  you  saw 

Once? — twice? — quick ! 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  327 

Ger.  Twenty  times. 

Tresh.  And  what  brings  you 

Under  the  yew-trees? 

Ger.  The  first  night  I  left 

My  range  so  far,  to  track  the  stranger  stag 
That  broke  the  pale,  I  saw  the  man. 

Tresh.  Yet  sent 

No  cross-bow  shaft  through  the  marauder? 

Ger.  But 

He  came,  my  lord,  the  first  time  he  was  seen, 
In  a  great  moonlight,  light  as  any  day 
From  Lady  Mildred's  chamber. 

Tresh.  [after  a  pause.]     You  have  no  cause 
— Who  could  have  cause  to  do  my  sister  wrong? 

Ger.     Oh,  my  lord,  only  once — let  me  this  once 
Speak  what  is  on  my  mind!     Since  first  I  noted 
All  this,  I've  groaned  as  if  a  fiery  net 
Plucked  me  this  way  and  that — fire  if  I  turned 
To  her,  fire  if  I  turned  to  you,  and  fire 
If  down  I  flung  myself  and  strove  to  die. 
The  lady  could  not  have  been  seven  years  old 
When  I  was  trusted  to  conduct  her  safe 
Thro'  the  deer-herd  to  stroke  the  snow-white  fawn 
I  brought  to  eat  bread  from  her  tiny  hand 
Within  a  month.     She  ever  had  a  smile 
To  greet  me  with- — she   .    .    .   if  it  could  undo 
What's  done,  to  lop  each  limb  from  off  this  trunk   .    .    . 
All  that  is  foolish  talk,  not  fit  for  you — 
I  mean,  I  could  not  speak  and  bring  her  hurt 
For  Heaven's  compelling.     But  when  I  was  fixed 
To  hold  my  peace,  each  morsel  of  your  food 
Eaten  beneath  your  roof,  my  birth-place  too. 
Choked  me.     I  wish  I  had  grown  mad  in  doubts 
What  it  behoved  me  do.     This  morn  it  seemed 
Either  I  must  confess  to  you,  or  die: 
Now  it  is  done,  I  seem  the  vilest  worm 
That  crawls,  to  have  betrayed  my  lady. 

Tresh.  Xo— 

No,  Gerard! 

Ger.  Let  me  go! 

Tresh.  A  man.  you  say: 

What  man?     Young?     Not  a  vulgar  hind?     What  dress? 


328  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Ger.     A  slouched  hat  and  a  large  dark  foreign  cloak 
Wraps  his  whole  form;  even  his  face  is  hid; 
But  I  should  judge  him  young:  no  hind,  be  sure! 

Tresh.     Why? 

Ger.  He  is  ever  armed:  his  sword  projects 

Beneath  the  cloak. 

Tresh.  Gerard, — I  will  not  say 

No  word,  no  breath  of  this! 

Ger.  Thanks,  thanks,  my  lord! 

[Goes. 

Tresh.     [Paces  the  room.    After  a  pause.] 
Oh,  thought's  absurd! — as  with  some  monstrous  fact 
Which,  when  ill  thoughts  beset  us,  seems  to  give 
Merciful  God  that  made  the  sun  and  stars, 
The  waters  and  the  green  delights  of  earth, 
The  lie!     I  apprehend  the  monstrous  fact — 
Yet  know  the  maker  of  all  worlds  is  good, 
And  yield  my  reason  up,  inadequate 
To  reconcile  what  yet  I  do  behold — 
Blasting  my  sense!     There's  cheerful  day  outside: 
This  is  my  library,  and  this  the  chair 
My  father  used  to  sit  in  carelessly 
After  his  soldier-fashion,  while  I  stood 
Between  his  knees  to  question  him:  and  here 
Gerard  our  gray  retainer, — as  he  says, 
Fed  with  our  food,  from  sire  to  son,  an  age, — 
Has  told  a  story — I  am  to  believe! 
That  Mildred   .    .    .   oh,  no,  no!  both  tales  are  true, 
Her  pure  cheek's  story  and  the  forester's! 
Would  she,  or  could  she,  err — much  less,  confound 
All  guilts  of  treachery,  of  craft,  of   ...   Heaven 
Keep  me  within  its  hand! — I  will  sit  here 
Until  thought  settle  and  I  see  my  course. 
Avert,  Oh  God,  only  this  woe  from  me! 

[As  he  sinks  his  head  between  his  arms  on  the  table,  GUEN- 

DOLEN'S  voice  is  heard  at  the  door. 
Lord  Tresham!     [She  knocks.]     Is  Lord  Trcsham  there? 

[TRESHAM,  hastily  turning,  pulls  down  the  first  book  above 
him  and  opens  it. 

Tresh.  Come  in!     [She  enters.] 

Ha,  Guenclolen!  good  morning. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  329 

Guen.  Nothing  more? 

Tresh.     What  should  I  say  more? 

Guen.  Pleasant  question!  more? 

This  more.     Did  I  besiege  poor  Mildred's  brain 
Last  night  till  close  on  morning  with  "the  Earl," 
"The  Earl" — whose  worth  did  I  asseverate 
Till  I  am  very  fain  to  hope  that   .    .    .   Thorold, 
What  is  all  this?     You  are  not  well! 

Tresh.  Who,  I? 

You  laugh  at  me. 

Guen.  Has  what  I'm  fain  to  hope, 

Arrived  then?     Does  that  huge  tome  show  some  blot 
In  the  Earl's  'scutcheon  come  no  longer  back 
Than  Arthur's  time? 

Tresh.  When  left  you  Mildred's  chamber? 

Guen.     Oh,  lato  enough,  I  told  you!     The  main  thing 
To  ask  is,  how  I  left  her  chamber, — sure, 
Content  yourself,  she'll  grant  this  paragon 
Of  Earls  no  such  ungracious   .    .    . 

Tresh.  Send  her  here! 

Guen.     Thorold? 

Tresh.  I  mean — acquaint  her,  Guendolen, 

—But  mildly! 

Guen.  Mildly? 

Tresh.  Ah,  you  guess' d  aright  1 

I  am  not  well:  there  is  no  hiding  it. 
But  tell  her  I  would  see  her  at  her  leisure — 
That  is,  at  once!  here  in  the  library! 
The  passage  in  that  old  Italian  book 
We  hunted  for  so  long  is  found,  say,  found — 
And  if  I  let  it  slip  again   .    .    .   you  see, 
That  she  must  come — and  instantly! 

Guen.  I'll  die 

Piecemeal,  record  that,  if  there  have  not  gloomed 
Some  blot  i'  the  'scutcheon! 

Tresh.  Go!  or,  Guendolen, 

Be  you  at  call, — with  Austin,  if  you  choose, — 
In  the  adjoining  gallery!     There,  go!  [GUENDOLEN  goes. 

Another  lesson  to  me!     You  might  bid 
A  child  disguise  his  heart's  sore,  and  conduct 
Some  sly  investigation  point  by  point 
With  a  smooth  brow,  as  well  as  bid  me  catch 


330  ROBERT  BROWNING 

The  inquisitorial  cleverness  some  praise! 

If  you  had  told  me  yesterday,  "There's  one 

You  needs  must  circumvent  and  practise  with, 

Entrap  by  policies,  if  you  would  worm 

The  truth  out:  and  that  one  is — Mildred!"    There, 

There — reasoning  is  thrown  away  on  it ! 

Prove  she's  unchaste   .    .    .   why,  you  may  after  prove 

That  she's  a  poisoner,  traitress,  what  you  will! 

Where  I  can  comprehend  nought,  nought's  to  say. 

Or  do,  or  think.     Force  on  me  but  the  first 

Abomination, — then  outpour  all  plagues, 

And  I  shall  ne'er  make  count  of  them! 

Enter  MILDRED. 

Mil.  What  book 

Is  it  I  wanted,  Thorold?     Guendolen 
Thought  you  were  pale;  you  are  not  pale.     That  book? 
That's  Latin  surely. 

Tresh.  Mildred,  here's  a  line, 

(Don't  lean  on  me:  I'll  English  it  for  you) 
"Love  conquers  all  things."     What  love  conquers  them? 
W7hat  love  should  you  esteem — best  love? 

Mil.  True  love. 

Tresh.     I  mean,  and  should  have  said,  whose  love  is  best 
Of  all  that  love  or  that  profess  to  love? 

Mil.     The  list's  so  long:  there's  father's,  mother's,  hus- 
band's  .    .    . 

Tresh.     Mildred,  I  do  believe  a  brother's  love 
For  a  sole  sister  must  exceed  them  all. 
For  see  now,  only  see!  there's  no  alloy 
Of  earth  that  creeps  into  the  pcrfect'st  gold 
Of  other  loves — no  gratitude  to  claim; 
You  never  gave  her  life,  not  even  aught 
That  keeps  life — never  tended  her,  instructed, 
Enriched  her— so,  your  love  can  claim  no  right 
O'er  her  save  pure  love's  claim:  that's  what  I  call 
Freedom  from  earthliness.     You'll  never  hope 
To  be  such  friends,  for  instance,  she  and  you, 
As  when  you  hunted  cowslips  in  the  woods 
Or  played  together  in  the  meadow  hay. 
Oh  yes — with  age,  respect  comes,  and  your  worth 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  331 

Is  felt,  there's  growing  sympathy  of  tastes, 
There's  ripened  friendship,  there's  confirmed  esteem: 
— Much  head  these  make  against  the  new-comer! 
The  startling  apparition,  the  strange  youth — 
Whom  one  half-hour's  conversing  with,  or,  say, 
Mere  gazing  at,  shall  change  (beyond  all  change 
This  Ovid  ever  sang  about!)  your  soul 

.   Her  soul,  that  is, — the  sister's  soul !    With  her 
'Twas  winter  yesterday;  now  all  is  warmth, 
The  green  leaf's  springing  and  the  turtle's  voice, 
"Arise  and  come  away!"     Come  whither? — far 
Enough  from  the  esteem,  respect,  and  all 
The  brother's  somewhat  insignificant 
Array  of  rights!     All  which  he  knows  before, 
Has  calculated  on  so  long  ago! 
I  think  such  love,  (apart  from  yours  and  mine,) 
Contented  with  its  little  term  of  life, 
Intending  to  retire  betimes,  aware 
How  soon  the  background  must  be  place  for  it, 
— I  think,  am  sure,  a  brother's  love  exceeds 
All  the  world's  love  in  its  unworldliness. 

Mil.     WThat  is  this  for? 

Tresh.  This,  Mildred>  IB  it  for! 

Ohj  no,  I  cannot  go  to  it  so  soon! 
That's  one  of  many  points  my  haste  left  out — 
Each  day,  each  hour  throws  forth  its  silk-slight  film 
Between  the  being  tied  to  you  by  birth, 
And  you,  until  those  slender  threads  compose 
A  web  that  shrouds  her  daily  life  of  hopes 
And  fears  and  fancies,  all  her  life,  from  yours: 
So  close  you  live  and  yet  so  far  apart! 
And  must  I  rend  this  web,  tear  up,  break  down 
The  sweet  and  palpitating  mystery 
That  makes  her  sacred?     You — for  you  I  mean, 
Shall  I  speak,  shall  I  not  speak? 

Mil.  Speak! 

Tresh.  I  will. 

Is  there  a  story'  men  could — any  man 
Could  tell  of  you,  you  would  conceal  from  me? 
I'll  never  think  there's  falsehood  on  that  lip. 
Say  "There  is  no  such  story  men  could  tell," 
And  I'll  believe  you,  though  I  disbelieve 


332  ROBERT  BROWNING 

The  world — the  world  of  better  men  than  I, 
And  women  such  as  I  suppose  you.  Speak! 
[After  a  pause.]  Not  speak?  Explain  then!  clear  it  up  then! 

Move 

Some  of  the  miserable  weight  away 
That  presses  lower  than  the  grave!    Not  speak? 
Some  of  the  dead  weight,  Mildred!    Ah,  if  I 
Could  bring  myself  to  plainly  make  their  charge 
Against  you!    Must  I,  Mildred?    Silent  still? 
[After  a  pause.]    Is  there  a  gallant  that  has  night  by  night 
Admittance  to  your  chamber? 
[After  a  pause.]  Then,  his  name! 

Till  now,  I  only  had  a  thought  for  you : 
But  now, — his  name ! 

Mil.  Thorold,  do  you  devise 

Fit  expiation  for  my  guilt,  if  fit 
There  be!    'Tis  nought  to  say  that  I'll  endure 
And  bless  you, — that  my  spirit  yearns  to  purge 
Her  stains  off  in  the  fierce  renewing  fire : 
But  do  not  plunge  me  into  other  guilt ! 
Oh,  guilt  enough!    I  cannot  tell  his  name. 

Tresh.    Then  judge  yourself!    How  should  I  act? 
Pronounce! 

Mil.    Oh,  Thorold,  you  must  never  tempt  me  thus! 
To  die  here  in  this  chamber  by  that  sword 
Would  seem  like  punishment:  so  should  I  glide, 
Like  an  arch-cheat,  into  extrcmest  bliss! 
'Twcre  easily  arranged  for  me:  but  you — 
What  would  become  of  you? 

Tresh.  And  Avhat  will  now 

Become  of  me?    I'll  hide  your  shame  and  mine 
From  every  eye;  the  dead  must  heave  their  hearts 
Under  the  marble  of  our  chapel-floor; 
They  cannot  rise;  and  blast  you!    You  may  wed 
Your  paramour  above  our  mother's  tomb: 
Our  mother  cannot  move  from  'neath  your  foot. 
We  two  will  somehow  wear  this  one  day  out: 
But  with  tomorrow  hastens  here — the  Karl! 
The  youth  without  suspicion    .    .    .    face  can  come 
From  Heaven,  and  heart  from    .    .    .    whence  proceed  such 
hearts? 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  333 

I  have  despatched  last  night  at  your  command 
A  missive  bidding  him  present  himself 
To-morrow — here — thus  much  is  said;  the  rest 
Is  understood  as  if  'twere  written  down — 
"  His  suit  finds  favour  in  your  eyes."    Now  dictate 
This  morning's  letter  that  shall  countermand 
Last  night's— do  dictate  that! 

Mil.  But,   Thorold— if 

I  will  receive  him  as  I  said? 

Tresh.  The  Earl? 

Mil.    I  will  receive  him. 

Tresh.  [Starting  up.]  Ho  there!  Guendolen! 

GUENDOLEN  and  AUSTIN  enter. 

And,  Austin,  you  are  welcome,  too!    Look  there! 
The  woman  there! 

Aus.  and  Guen.    How?   Mildred? 

Tresh.  Mildred  once! 

Now  the  receiver  night  by  night,  when  sleep 
Blesses  the  inmates  of  her  father's  house, 
— I  say,  the  soft  sly  wanton  that  receives 
Her  guilt's  accomplice  neath  this  roof  which  holds 
You,  Guendolen,  you,  Austin,  and  has  held 
A  thousand  Treshams — never  one  like  her! 
No  lighter  of  the  signal-lamp  her  quick 
Foul  breath  near  quenches  in  hot  eagerness 
To  mix  with  breath  as  foul !  no  loosener 
Of  the  lattice,  practiced  in  the  stealthy  tread, 
The  low  voice  and  the  noiseless  come-and-go! 
Not  one  composer  of  the  bacchant's  mien 
Into — what  you  thought  Mildred's,  in  a  word! 
Know  her! 

Guen.  Oh,  Mildred,  look  to  me,  at  least! 

Thorold — she's  dead,  I'd  say,  but  that  she  stands 
Rigid  as  stone  and  whiter! 

Tresh.  You  have  heard 

Guen.    Too  much!  you  must  proceed  no  further. 

Mil.  Yes- 

Proceed!    All's  truth.    Go  from  me! 

Tresh.  All  is  truth, 

She  tells  you!    Well,  you  know,  or  ought  to  know, 


334  ROBERT  BROWNING 

All  this  I  would  forgive  in  her.     I'd  con 

Each  precept  the  harsh  world  enjoins,  I'd  take 

Our  ancestors '  stern  verdicts  one  by  one, 

I'd  bind  myself  before  them  to  exact 

The  prescribed  vengeance — and  one  word  of  hers, 

The  sight  of  her,  the  bare  least  memory 

Of  Mildred,  my  one  sister,  my  heart's  pride 

Above  all  prides,  my  all  in  all  so  long, 

Would  scatter  every  trace  of  my  resolve. 

What  were  it  silently  to  waste  away 

And  see  her  waste  away  from  this  day  forth, 

Two  scathed  things  with  leisure  to  repent, 

And  grow  acquainted  with  the  grave,  and  die 

Tired  out  if  not  at  peace,  and  be  forgotten? 

It  were  not  so  impossible  to  bear. 

But  this — that,  fresh  from  last  night's  pledge  renewed 

Of  love  with  the  successful  gallant  there, 

She  calmly  bids  me  help  her  to  entice, 

Inveigle  an  unconscious  trusting  youth 

Who  thinks  her  all  that's  chaste  and  good  and  pure, 

• — Invites  me  to  betray  him   .    .    .   who  so  fit 

As  honor's  self  to  cover  shame's  arch-deed? 

• — That  she'll  receive  Lord  Mertoun — (her  own  phrase) — 

This,  who  could  bear?    Why,  you  have  heard  of  thieves, 

Stabbers,  the  earth's  disgrace,  who  yet  have  laughed, 

"Talk  not  to  me  of  torture — I'll  betray 

No  comrade  I've  pledged  faith  to!" — you  have  heard 

Of  wretched  women — all  but  Mildreds — tied 

By  wild  illicit  ties  to  losels  vile 

You'd  tempt  them  to  forsake;  and  they'll  reply 

"Gold,  friends,  repute,  I  left  for  him,  I  find 

In  him,  why  should  I  leave  him  then  for  gold, 

Repute  or  friends?" — and  you  have  felt  your  heart 

Respond  to  such  poor  outcasts  of  the  world 

As  to  so  many  friends;  bad  as  you  please, 

You've  felt  they  were  God's  men  and  women  still, 

So,  not  to  be  disowned  by  you.     But  she 

That  stands  there,  calmly  gives  her  lover  up 

As  means  to  wed  the  Earl  that  she  may  hide 

Their  intercourse  the  surelier:  and,  for  this, 

I  curse  her  to  her  face  before  you  all. 

Shame  hunt  her  from  the  earth !     Then  Heaven  do  right 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  335 

To  both!     It  hears  me  now — shall  judge  her  then! 

[As  MILDRED  faints  and  falls,  TRESHAM  rushes  out. 

Aus.     Stay,  Tresham,  we'll  accompany  you! 

Guen.  We? 

What,  and  leave  Mildred?    We?  why,  where's  my  place 
But  by  her  side,  and  where  yours  but  by  mine? 
Mildred — one  word!     Only  look  at  me,  then! 

Aus.     No,  Guendolcn!     I  echo  Thorold's  voice. 
She  is  unworthy  to  behold   .    .    . 

Guen.  Us  two? 

If  you  spoke  on  reflection,  and  if  I 
Approved  your  speech — if  you  (to  put  the  thing 
At  lowest)  you  the  soldier,  bound  to  make 
The  king's  cause  yours  and  fight  for  it,  and  throw 
Regard  to  others  of  its  right  or  wrong, 
— If  with  a  death-white  woman  you  can  help, 
Let  alone  sister,  let  alone  a  Mildred, 
You  left  her — or  if  I,  her  cousin,  friend 
This  morning,  playfellow  but  yesterday, 
Who've  said,  or  thought  at  least  a  thousand  times, 
"I'd  serve  you  if  I  could,"  should  now  face  round 
And  say,  "Ah,  that's  to  only  signify 
I'd  serve  you  while  you're  fit  to  serve  yourself: 
So  long  as  fifty  eyes  await  the  turn 
Of  yours  to  forestall  its  yet  half-formed  wish, 
I'll  proffer  my  assistance  you'll  not  need — 
When  every  tongue  is  praising  you,  I'll  join 
The  praisers'  chorus — when  you're  hemmed  about 
With  lives  between  you  and  detraction — lives 
To  be  laid  down  if  a  rude  voice,  rash  eye, 
Rough  hand  should  violate  the  sacred  ring 
Their  worship  throws  about  you, — then  indeed, 
Who'll  stand  up  for  you  stout  as  I?"     If  so 
We  said,  and  so  we  did, — not  Mildred  there 
Would  be  unworthy  to  behold  us  both, 
But  we  should  be  unworthy,  both  of  us, 
To  be  beheld  by — by — your  meanest  dog, 
Which,  if  that  sword  were  broken  in  your  face 
Before  a  crowd,  that  badge  torn  off  your  breast, 
And  you  cast  out  with  hooting  and  contempt, 
— Would  push  his  way  thro '  all  the  hooters,  gain 
Your  side,  go  off  with  you  and  all  your  shame 


336  ROBERT  BROWNING 

To  the  next  ditch  you  choose  to  die  in!     Austin, 
Do  you  love  me?     Here's  Austin,  Mildred, — here's 
Your  brother  says  he  does  not  believe  half — 
No,  nor  half  that — of  all  he  heard !     He  says, 
Look  up  and  take  his  hand! 

Aus.  Look  up  and  take 

My  hand,  dear  Mildred! 

Mil.  I — I  was  so  young! 

Beside,  I  loved  him,  Thorold — and  I  had 
No  mother;  God  forgot  me:  so,  I  fell. 

Guen.     Mildred! 

Mil.  Require  no  further!     Did  I  dream 

That  I  could  palliate  what  is  done?     All's  true. 
Now,  punish  me!     A  woman  takes  my  hand? 
Let  go  my  hand!     You  do  not  know,  I  see. 
I  thought  that  Thorold  told  you. 

Guen.  What  is  this? 

Where  start  you  to? 

Mil.  Oh,  Austin,  loosen  me! 

You  heard  the  whole  of  it — your  eyes  were  worse, 
In  their  surprise,  than  Thorold 's!     Oh,  unless 
You  stay  to  execute  his  sentence,  loose 
My  hand!     Has  Thorold  gone,  and  are  you  here? 

Guen.     Here,  Mildred,  we  two  friends  of  yours  will  wait 
Your  bidding;  be  you  silent,  sleep  or  muse! 
Only,  when  you  shall  want  your  bidding  done, 
How  can  we  do  it  if  we  are  not  by? 
Here's  Austin  waiting  patiently  your  will! 
One  spirit  to  command,  and  one  to  love 
And  to  believe  in  it  and  do  its  best, 
Poor  as  that  is,  to  help  it — why,  the  world 
Has  been  won  many  a  time,  its  length  and  breadth, 
By  just  such  a  beginning! 

Mil.  I  believe 

If  once  I  threw  my  arms  about  your  neck 
And  sunk  my  head  upon  your  breast,  that  I 
Should  weep  again. 

Guen.  Let  go  her  hand  now,  Austin! 

Wait  for  me.     Pace  the  gallery  and  think 
On  the  world's  seemings  and  realities, 
Until  I  call  you.  [Au.vriN  goes. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  337 

Mil.  No — I  cannot  weep. 

No  more  tears  from  this  brain — no  sleep — no  tears! 

0  Guendolen,  I  love  you! 

Guen.  Yes:  and  "love" 

Is  a  short  word  that  sajrs  so  very  much! 
It  says  that  you  confide  in  me. 

Mil.  Confide! 

Guen.     Your  lover's  name,  then!     I've  so  much  to  learn, 
Ere  I  can  work  in  your  behalf! 

Mil.  My  friend, 

You  know  I  cannot  tell  his  name. 

Guen.  At  least 

He  is  your  lover?  and  you  love  him  too? 

Mil.     Ah,  do  you  ask  me  that? — but  I  am  fallen 
So  low! 

Guen.     You  love  him  still,  then? 

Mil.  My  sole  prop 

Against  the  guilt  that  crushes  me!     I  say, 
Each  night  ere  I  lie  down,  "I  was  so  young — 

1  had  no  mother,  and  I  loved  him  so!" 
And  then  God  seems  indulgent,  and  I  dare 
Trust  him  my  soul  in  sleep. 

Guen.  How  could  you  let  us 

E'en  talk  to  you  about  Lord  Mertoun  then? 

Mil.     There  is  a  cloud  around  me. 

Guen.  But  you  said 

You  would  receive  his  suit  in  spite  of  this? 

Mil.     I  say  there  is  a  cloud   .    .    . 

Guen.  No  cloud  to  me! 

Lord  Mertoun  and  your  lover  are  the  same! 

Mil.     What  maddest  fancy   .    .    . 

Guen.  [calling  aloud.]  Austin!  (spare  your  pains — 

When  I  have  got  a  truth,  that  truth  I  keep) — 

Mil.     By  all  you  love,  sweet  Guendolen,  forbear! 
Have  I  confided  in  you    .    .    . 

Guen.  Just  for  this! 

Austin! — Oh,  not  to  guess  it  at  the  first! 
But  I  did  guess  it — that  is,  I  divined, 
Felt  by  an  instinct  how  it  was:  why  else 
Should  I  pronounce  you  free  from  all  that  heap 
Of  sins  which  had  been  irredeemable? 
I  felt  they  were  not  yours — what  other  way 


338  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Than  this,  not  yours?    The  secret's  wholly  mine! 

Mil.     If  you  would  see  me  die  before  his  face   .    .    . 

Guen.     I'd  hold  my  peace!     And  if  the  Earl  returns 
To-night? 

Mil.         Ah  Heaven,  he's  lost! 

Guen.  I  thought  so!     Austin! 

Enter  AUSTIN. 

Oh,  where  have  you  been  hiding? 

Aus.  Thorold's  gone, 

I  know  not  how,  across  the  meadow-land. 
I  watched  him  till  I  lost  him  in  the  skirts 
Of  the  beech-wood. 

Guen.  Gone?    All  thwarts  us. 

Mil.  Thorold  too? 

Guen.     I  have  thought.     First  lead  this  Mildred  to  her 

room. 

Go  on  the  other  side;  and  then  we'll  seek 
Your  brother:  and  I'll  tell  you,  by  the  way, 
The  greatest  comfort  in  the  world.     You  said 
There  was  a  clew  to  all.     Remember,  Sweet, 
He  said  there  was  a  clew!     I  hold  it.     Come! 

ACT  III 

SCENE  I. — The  end  of  the  Yew-tree  Avenue  under  MILDRED'S 
window.     A  light  seen  through  a  central  red  pane. 

Enter  TRESHAM  through  the  trees. 

Again  here!     But  I  cannot  lose  myself. 

The  heath — the  orchard — I  have  traversed  glades 

And  dells  and  bosky  paths  which  used  to  lead 

Into  green  wild-wood  depths,  bewildering 

My  boy's  adventurous  step.     And  now  they  tend 

Hither  or  soon  or  late;  the  blackest  shade 

Breaks  up,  the  thronged  trunks  of  the  trees  ope  wide, 

And  the  dim  turret  I  have  fled  from,  fronts 

Again  my  step;  the  very  river  put 

Its  arm  about  me  and  conducted  me 

To  this  detested  spot.     Why  then,  I'll  shun 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  339 

Their  will  no  longer:  do  your  will  with  me! 

Oh,  bitter!    To  have  reared  a  towering  scheme 

Of  happiness,  and  to  behold  it  razed, 

Were  nothing:  all  men  hope,  and  see  their  hopes 

Frustrate,  and  grieve  awhile,  and  hope  anew. 

But  I   ...   to  hope  that  from  a  line  like  ours 

No  horrid  prodigy  like  this  would  spring, 

Were  just  as  though  I  hoped  that  from  these  old 

Confederates  against  the  sovereign  day, 

Children  of  older  and  yet  older  sires, 

Whose  living  coral  berries  dropped,  as  now 

On  me,  on  many  a  baron's  surcoat  once, 

On  many  a  beauty's  wimple — would  proceed 

No  poison-tree,  to  thrust,  from  hell  its  root, 

Hither  and  thither  its  strange  snaky  arms. 

Why  came  I  here?    What  must  I  do?     [A  bell  strikes.]     A 

bell? 

Midnight!  and  'tis  at  midnight  .    .    .     Ah,  I  catch 
— Woods,  river,  plains,  I  catch  your  meaning  now, 
And  I  obey  you!    Hist!    This  tree  will  serve. 

[He  retires  behind  one  of  the  trees.     After  a  pause,  enter 
MERTOUN  cloaked  as  before. 

Mer.     Not  time!     Beat  out  thy  last  voluptuous  beat 
Of  hope  and  fear,  my  heart!     I  thought  the  clock 
I'  the  chapel  struck  as  I  was  pushing  through 
The  ferns.     And  so  I  shall  no  more  see  rise 
My  love-star!     Oh,  no  matter  for  the  past! 
So  much  the  more  delicious  task  to  watch 
Mildred  revive:  to  pluck  out,  thorn  by  thorn, 
All  traces  of  the  rough  forbidden  path 
My  rash  loved  lured  her  to!     Each  day  must  see 
Some  fear  of  hers  effaced,  some  hope  renewed: 
Then  there  will  be  surprises,  unforeseen 
Delights  in  store.     I'll  not  regret  the  past. 

[The  light  is  placed  above  in  the  purple  pane. 
And  see,  my  signal  rises,     Mildred's  star! 
I  never  saw  it  lovelier  than  now 
It  rises  for  the  last  time.     If  it  sets, 
'Tis  that  the  re-assuring  sun  may  dawn. 


340  ROBERT  BROWNING 

[As  he  prepares  to  ascend  the  last  tree  of  the  avenue,  TRESHAM 
arrests  his  arm. 

Unhand  me — peasant,  by  your  grasp!     Here's  gold. 
'Twas  a  mad  freak  of  mine.     I  said  I'd  pluck 
A  branch  from  the  white-blossomed  shrub  beneath 
The  casement  there.     Take  this,  and  hold  your  peace. 

Tresh.     Into  the  moonlight  yonder,  come  with  me  I 
Out  of  the  shadow! 

Mer.  I  am  armed,  fool! 

Tresh.  Yes, 

Or  no?    You'll  come  into  the  light,  or  no? 
My  hand  is  on  your  throat — refuse! — 

Mer.  That  voice! 

Where  have  I  heard   .    .    .  no — that  was  mild  and  slow. 
I'll  come  with  you.  [They  advance. 

Tresh.  You're  armed:  that's  well.    Declare 

Your  name:  who  are  you? 

Mer.  (Tresham! — she  is  lost!) 

Tresh.     Oh,  silent?     Do  you  know,  you  bear  yourself 
Exactly  as,  in  curious  dreams  I've  had 
How  felons,  this  wild  earth  is  full  of,  look 
When  they're  detected,  still  your  kind  has  looked! 
The  bravo  holds  an  assured  countenance, 
The  thief  is  voluble  and  plausible, 
But  silently  the  slave  of  lust  has  crouched 
When  I  have  fancied  it  before  a  man. 
Your  name! 

Mer.  I  do  conjure  Lord  Tresham — ay, 

Kissing  his  foot,  if  so  I  might  prevail — 
That  he  for  his  own  sake  forbear  to  ask 
My  name!     As  heaven's  above,  his  future  weal 
Or  woe  depends  upon  my  silence!     Vain! 
I  read  your  white  inexorable  face. 
Know  me,  Lord  Tresham! 

[He  throws  off  his  disguises. 

Tresh.  Mertoun! 

[After  a  pause.]  Draw  now! 

Mer.  Hear  me 

But  speak  first! 

Tresh.  Not  one  least  word  on  your  life! 

Be  sure  that  I  will  strangle  in  your  throat 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  311 

The  least  word  that  informs  me  how  you  live 
And  yet  seem  what  you  seem!     No  doubt  'twas  you 
Taught  Mildred  still  to  keep  that  face  and  sin. 
We  should  join  hands  in  frantic  sympathy 
If  you  once  taught  me  the  unteachable, 
Explained  how  you  can  live  so,  and  so  lie. 
With  God's  help  I  retain,  despite  my  sense, 
The  old  belief — a  life  like  yours  is  still 
Impossible.     Now  draw! 

Mer.  Not  for  my  sake, 

Do  I  entreat  a  hearing — for  your  sake, 
And  most,  for  her  sake! 

Tresh.  Ha  ha,  what  should  I 

Know  of  your  ways?    A  miscreant  like  yourself, 
How  must  one  rouse  his  ire?    A  blow? — that's  pride 
No  doubt,  to  him!     One  spurns  him,  does  one  not? 
Or  sets  the  foot  upon  his  mouth,  or  spits 
Into  his  face!     Come!  which,  or  all  of  these? 

Mer.     'Twixt  him  and  me  and  Mildred,  Heaven  be  judge! 
Can  I  avoid  this?     Have  your  will,  my  lord! 

[He  draws  and,  after  a  few  passes,  falls. 

Tresh.     You  are  not  hurt? 

Mer.  You'll  hear  me  now! 

Tresh.  But  rise! 

Mer.     Ah,  Tresham,  say  I  not  "you'll  hear  me  now!" 
And  what  procures  a  man  the  right  to  speak 
In  his  defence  before  his  fellow  man, 
But — I  suppose — the  thought  that  presently 
He  may  have  leave  to  speak  before  his  God 
His  whole  defence? 

Tresh.  Not  hurt?     It  cannot  be! 

You  made  no  effort  to  resist  me.     Where 
Did  my  sword  reach  you?     Why  not  have  returned 
My  thrusts?     Hurt  where? 

~Mer.  My  lord — 

Tresh.  How  young  he  is! 

Mer.     Lord  Tresham,  I  am  very  young,  and  yet 
I  have  entangled  other  lives  with  mine. 
Do  let  me  speak,  and  do  believe  my  speech! 
That  when  I  die  before  you  presently, — 

Tresh.     Can  you  stay  here  till  I  return  with  help? 

Mer.     Oh,  stay  by  me!     When  I  was  less  than  boy 


342  ROBERT  BROWNING 

I  did  you  grievous  wrong  and  knew  it  not — 
Upon  my  honor,  knew  it  not!    Once  known, 
I  could  not  find  what  seemed  a  better  way 
To  right  you  than  I  took :  my  lif ey- you  feel 
How  less  than  nothing  were  the  giving  you 
The  life  you've  taken!    But  I  thought  my  way 
The  better — only  for  your  sake  and  hers: 
And  as  you  have  decided  otherwise, 
Would  I  had  an  infinity  of  lives 
To  offer  you!     Now  say — instruct  me — thinkl 
Can  you,  from  the  brief  minutes  I  have  left, 
Eke  out  my  reparation?     Oh  think — think! 
For  I  must  wring  a  partial — dare  I  say, 
Forgiveness  from  you,  ere  I  die? 

Tresh.  I  do 

Forgive  you. 

Mer.  Wait  and  ponder  that  great  word! ' 

Because,  if  you  forgive  me,  I  shall  hope 
To  speak  to  you  of — Mildred! 

Tresh.  Mertoun,  haste 

And  anger  have  undone  us.     'Tis  not  you 
Should  tell  me  for  a  novelty  you're  young, 
Thoughtless,  unable  to  recall  the  past. 
Be  but  your  pardon  ample  as  my  own! 

Mer.     Ah,  Tresham,  that  a  sword-stroke  and  a  drop 
Of  blood  or  two,  should  bring  all  this  about! 
Why,  'twas  my  very  fear  of  you,  my  love 
Of  you — (what  passion  like  a  boy's  for  one 
Like  you?) — that  ruined  me!     I  dreamed  of  you — 
You,  all  accomplished,  courted  everywhere, 
The  scholar  and  the  gentleman.     I  burned 
To  knit  myself  to  you :  but  I  was  young, 
And  your  surpassing  reputation  kept  me 
So  far  aloof!     Oh,  wherefore  all  that  love? 
With  less  of  love,  my  glorious  yesterday 
Of  praise  and  gentlest  words  and  kindest  looks, 
Had  taken  place  perchance  six  months  ago. 
Even  now,  how  happy  we  had  been!     And  yet 
I  know  the  thought  of  this  escaped  you,  Tresham! 
Let  me  look  up  into  your  face;  I  feel 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  343 

'Tis  changed  above  me:  yet  my  eyes  are  glazed. 
Where?  where? 

[As  fie  endeavours  to  raise  himself,  his  eye  catches  the  lamp. 

Ah,  Mildred!    What  will  Mildred  do? 
Tresham,  her  life  is  bound  up  in  the  life 
That's  bleeding  fast  away!     I'll  live — must  live, 
There,  if  you'll  only  turn  me  I  shall  live 
And  save  her!     Tresham — oh,  had  you  but  heard! 
Had  you  but  heard!     What  right  was  your's  to  set 
The  thoughtless  foot  upon  her  life  and  mine, 
And  then  say,  as  we  perish,  "Had  I  thought, 
All  had  gone  otherwise"?    We've  sinned  and  die: 
Never  you  sin,  Lord  Tresham!  for  you'll  die, 
And  God  will  judge  you. 

Tresh.  Yes,  be  satisfied! 

That  process  is  begun. 

Mer.  And  she  sits  there 

Waiting  for  me!     Now,  say  you  this  to  her — 
You,  not  another — say,  I  saw  him  die 
As  he  breathed  this,  "I  love  her" — you  don't  know 
What  those  three  small  words  mean!     Say,  loving  her 
Lowers  me  down  the  bloody  slope  to  death 
With  memories  ...   I  speak  to  her,  not  you, 
Who  had  no  pity,  will  have  no  remorse, 
Perchance-intend  her   ...   Die  along  with  me, 
Dear  Mildred!  'tis  so  easy,  and  you'll  'scape 
So  much  unkindness!     Can  I  lie  at  rest, 
With  rude  speech  spoken  to  you,  ruder  deeds 
Done  to  you? — heartless  men  shall  have  my  heart, 
And  I  tied  down  with  grave-clothes  and  the  worm, 
Aware,  perhaps,  of  every  blow— oh  God! — 
Upon  those  lips — yet  of  no  power  to  tear 
The  felon  stripe  by  stripe!     Die,  Mildred!     Leave 
Their  honorable  world  to  them!     For  God 
We're  good  enough,  though  the  world  casts  us  out. 

[.-1  ichistle  is  heard. 

Tresh.    Ho,  Gerard! 

Enter  GERARD,  AUSTIN  and  GUENDOLEN,  with  lights. 

No  one  speak!  you  see  what's  done. 
I  cannot  bear  another  voice. 

Mer.  There's  light— 


344  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Light  all  about  me,  and  I  move  to  it. 
Tresham,  did  I  not  tell  you — did  you  not 
Just  promise  to  deliver  words  of  mine 
To  Mildred? 

Tresh.  I  will  bear  those  words  to  her. 

Mer.     Now? 

Tresh.     Now.     Lift  you  the  body,  and  leave  me 
The  head. 

[As  they  have  half  raised  MERTOUN,  he  turns  suddenly. 

Mer.     I  knew  they  turned  me:  turn  me  not  from  her! 
There!   stay  you!  there!  [Dies. 

Guen.  [after  a  pause.}     Austin,  remain  you  here 
With  Thorold  until  Gerard  comes  with  help: 
Then  lead  him  to  his  chamber.     I  must  go 
To  Mildred. 

Tresh.  Guendolen,  I  hear  each  word 

You  utter.     Did  you  hear  him  bid  me  give 
His  message?     Did  you  hear  my  promise?     I, 
And  only  I,  see  Mildred. 

Guen.  She  will  die. 

Tresh.     Oh  no,  she  will  not  die!     I  dare  not  hope 
She'll  die.     What  ground  have  you  to  think  she'll  die? 
Why,  Austin's  with  you! 

Aus.  Had  we  but  arrived 

Before  you  fought! 

Tresh.  There  was  no  fight  at  all. 

He  let  me  slaughter  him — the  boy!  I'll  trust 
The  body  there  to  you  and  Gerard — thus! 
Now  bear  him  on  before  me. 

Aus.  Whither  bear  him? 

Tresh.     Oh,  to  my  chamber!     When  we  meet  there  next, 
We  shall  be  friends. 

[They  bear  out  the  body  of  MERTOUN. 
Will  she  die,  Guendolen? 

Guen.     Where  are  you  taking  me? 

Tresh.  He  fell  just  here. 

Now  answer  me.     Shall  you  in  your  whole  life 
—You  who  have  nought  to  do  with  Mertoun's  fate, 
Now  you  have  seen  his  breast  upon  the  turf, 
Shall  you  e'er  walk  this  way  if  you  can  help? 
When  you  and  Austin  wander  arm-in-arm 
Through  our  ancestral  grounds,  will  not  a  shade 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  345 

Be  ever  on  the  meadow  and  the  waste — 
Another  kind  of  shade  than  when  the  night 
Shuts  the  woodside  with  all  its  whispers  up? 
But  will  you  ever  so  forget  his  breast 
As  carelessly  to  cross  this  bloody  turf 
Under  the  black  yew  avenue?     That's  well! 
You  turn  your  head :  and  I  then? — 

Guen.  What  is  done 

Is  done.     My  care  is  for  the  living.     Thorold, 
Bear  up  against  this  burden:  more  remains 
To  set  the  neck  to! 

Tresh.  Dear  and  ancient  trees 

My  fathers  planted,  and  I  loved  so  well! 
What  have  I  done  that,  like  some  fabled  crime 
Of  yore,  lets  loose  a  Fury  leading  thus 
Her  miserable  dance  amidst  you  all? 
Oh,  never  more  for  me  shall  winds  intone 
With  all  your  tops  a  vast  antiphony, 
Demanding  and  responding  in  God's  praise! 
Hers  ye  are  now,  not  mine!     Farewell — Farewell! 

SCENE  II. — MILDRED'S  Chamber. 

MILDRED  alone. 

He  comes  not!     I  have  heard  of  those  who  seemed 
Resourceless  in  prosperity, — you  thought 
Sorrow  might  slay  them  when  she  listed ;  yet 
Did  they  so  gather  up  their  diffused  strength 
At  her  first  menace,  that  they  bade  her  strike, 
And  stood  and  laughed  her  subtlest  skill  to  scorn. 
Oh,  'tis  not  so  with  me!     The  first  woe  fell, 
And  the  rest  fall  upon  it,  not  on  me. 
Else  should  I  bear  that  Henry  comes  not? — fails 
Just  this  first  night  out  of  so  many  nights? 
Loving  is  done  with.     Were  he  sitting  now, 
As  so  few  hours  since,  on  that  seat,  we'd  love 
No  more — contrive  no  thousand  happy  ways 
To  hide  love  from  the  loveless,  any  more. 
I  think  I  might  have  urged  some  little  point 
In  my  defence,  to  Thorold;  he  was  breathless 
For  the  least  hint  of  a  defence:  but  no, 
The  first  shame  over,  all  that  would  might  fall. 
No  Henry!     Yet  I  merely  sit  and  think 


346  ROBERT  BROWNING 

The  morn's  deed  o'er  and  o'er.    I  must  have  crept 
Out  of  myself.    A  Mildred  that  has  lost 
Her  lover — oh,  I  dare  not  look  upon 
Such  woe!     I  crouch  away  from  it!     'Tis  she, 
Mildred,  will  break  her  heart,  not  I!     The  world 
Forsakes  me:  only  Henry's  left  me — left? 
When  I  have  lost  him,  for  he  does  not  come, 
And  I  sit  stupidly.   .    .    .   Oh  Heaven,  break  up 
This  worse  than  anguish,  this  mad  apathy, 
By  any  means  or  any  messenger! 

Tresh.  [without.]     Mildred! 

Mil.  Come  in!     Heaven  hears  me! 

[Enter  TRESHAM.]  You?  alone? 

Oh,  no  more  cursing! 

Tresh.  Mildred,  I  must  sit. 

There — you  sit! 

Mil.  Say  it,  Thorold — do  not  look 

The  curse!  deliver  all  you  come  to  say! 
What  must  become  of  me?     Oh,  speak  that  thought 
Which  makes  your  brow  and  cheeks  so  pale ! 

Tresh.  My  thought? 

Mil.    All  of  it! 

Tresh.  How  we  waded — years  ago — 

After  those  water-lilies,  till  the  plash, 
I  know  not  how,  surprised  us;  and  you  dared 
Neither  advance  nor  turn  back:  so,  we  stood 
Laughing  and  crying  until  Gerard  came — 
Once  safe  upon  the  turf,  the  loudest  too, 
For  once  more  reaching  the  relinquished  prize! 
How  idle  thoughts  are,  some  men's,  dying  men's! 
Mildred,— 

Mil.  You  call  me  kindlier  by  my  name 

Than  even  yesterday:  what  is  in  that? 

Tresh.     It  weighs  so  much  upon  my  mind  that  I 
This  morning  took  an  office  not  my  own! 
I  might   ...  of  course,  I  must  be  glad  or  grieved, 
Content  or  not,  at  every  little  thing 
That  touches  you.     I  may  with  a  wrung  heart 
Even  reprove  you,  Mildred;  I  did  more: 
Will  you  forgive  me? 

Mil.  Thorold?  do  you  mock? 

Or  no  .    .    .   and  yet  you  bid  me   .    .    .   say  that  word! 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  347 

Tresh.     Forgive  me,  Mildred! — are  you  silent,  Sweet? 

Mil.  [starting  up.]     Why  does  not  Henry  Mertoun    come 

to-night? 
Are  you,  too,  silent? 

[Dashing  his  mantle  aside,  and  pointing  to    his    scabbard, 
which  is  empty. 

Ah,   this  speaks  for  you! 

You've  murdered  Henry  Mertoun!     Now  proceed! 
What  is  it  I  must  pardon?     This  and  all? 
Well,  I  do  pardon  you — I  think  I  do. 
Thorold,  how  very  wretched  you  must  be! 

Tresh.     He  bade  me  tell  you.   .    .    . 
rMil.  What  I  do  forbid 

Your  utterance  of!     So  much  that  you  may  tell 
And  will  not — how  you  murdered  him   .    .    .   but,  no! 
You'll  tell  me  that  he  loved  me,  never  more 
Than  bleeding  out  his  life  there:  must  I  say 
"Indeed,"  to  that?     Enough!     I  pardon  you. 

Tresh.     You  cannot,  Mildred!  for  the  harsh  words,  yes: 
Of  this  last  deed  Another's  judge:  whose  doom 
I  wait  in  doubt,  despondency  and  fear. 

Mil.     Oh,  true!     There's  nought  for  me  to  pardon!   True! 
You  loose  my  soul  of  all  its  cares  at  once. 
Death  makes  me  sure  of  him  for  ever!     You 
Tell  me  his  last  words?     He  shall  tell  me  them, 
And  take  my  answer — not  in  words,  but  reading 
Himself  the  heart  I  had  to  read  him  late, 
Which  death   .    .    . 

Tresh.  Death?  you  are  dying  too?     Well  said 

Of  Guendolen!     I  dared  not  hope  you'd  die: 
But  she  was  sure  of  it. 

Mil.  Tell  Guendolen 

I  loved  her,  and  tell  Austin   .    .    . 

Tresh.  Him  you  loved: 

And  me? 

Mil.     Ah,  Thorold!     Was't  not  rashly  done 
To  quench  that  blood,  on  fire  with  youth  and  hope 
And  love  of  me — whom  you  loved  too,  and  yet 
Suffered  to  sit  here  waiting  his  approach 
While  you  were  slaying  him?     Oh,  doubtlessly 
You  let  him  speak  his  poor  confused  boy's-speech 
— Do  his  poor  utmost  to  disarm  your  wrath 


348  ROBERT  BROWNING 

And  respite  me! — you  let  him  try  to  give 
The  story  of  our  love  and  ignorance, 
And  the  brief  madness  and  the  long  despair — 
You  let  him  plead  all  this,  because  your  code 
Of  honor  bids  you  hear  before  you  strike: 
But  at  the  end,  as  he  looked  up  for  life 
Into  your  eyes — you  struck  him  down! 

Tresh.  No!  nc! 

Had  I  but  heard  him — had  I  let  him  speak 
Half  the  truth — less — had  I  looked  long  on  him 
I  had  desisted!     Why,  as  he  lay  there, 
The  moon  on  his  flushed  cheek,  I  gathered  all 
The  story  ere  he  told  it :     I  saw  through 
The  troubled  surface  of  his  crime  and  yours 
A  depth  of  purity  immovable, 
Had  I  but  glanced,  where  all  seemed  turbidest 
Had  gleamed  some  inlet  to  the  calm  beneath ; 
I  would  not  glance:  my  punishment's  at  hand. 
There,  Mildred,  is  the  truth!  and  you — say  on — • 
You  curse  me? 

Mil.  As  I  dare  approach  that  Heaven 

Which  has  not  bade  a  living  thing  despair, 
Which  needs  no  code  to  keep  its  grace  from  stain, 
But  bids  the  vilest  worm  that  turns  on  it 
Desist  and  be  forgiven, — I — forgive  not, 
But  bless  you,  Thorold,  from  my  soul  of  souls! 

[Falls  on  his  neck. 

There!     Do  not  think  too  much  upon  the  past! 
The  cloud  that's  broke  was  all  the  same  a  cloud 
While  it  stood  up  between  my  friend  and  you; 
You  hurt  him  'neath  its  shadow:  but  is  that 
So  past  retrieve?     I  have  his  heart,  you  know; 
I  may  dispose  of  it:  I  give  it  you! 
It  loves  you  as  mine  loves!     Confirm  me,  Henry! 

[Dies. 

Tresh.     I  wish  thee  joy,  Beloved!     I  am  glad 
In  thy  full  gladness! 

Guen.  [without.]     Mildred!     Tresham! 

[Entering  with  AUSTIN.]  Thorold, 

I  could  desist  no  longer.     Ah,  she  swoons! 
That's  well. 

Tresh.          Oh!  better  far  than  that! 

Guen.  She's  dead! 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  349 

Let  me  unlock  her  arms! 

Tresh.  She  threw  them  thus 

About  my  neck,  and  blessed  me,  and  then  died: 
You'll  let  them  stay  now,  Guendolen! 

Aus.  Leave  her 

And  look  to  him!     What  ails  you,  Thorold? 

Guen.  White 

As  she,  and  whiter!     Austin!  quick — this  side! 

Aus.     A  froth  is  oozing  through  his  clenched  teeth; 
Both  lips,  where  they're  not  bitten  through,  are  black: 
Speak,  dearest  Thorold! 

Tresh.  Something  does  weigh  down 

My  neck  beside  her  weight :  thanks :  I  should  fall 
But  for  you,  Austin,  I  believe! — there,  there, 
'Twill  pass  away  soon! — ah, — I  had  forgotten: 
I  am  dying. 

Guen.  Thorold — Thorold — why  was  this? 

Tresh.  I  said,  just  as  I  drank  the  poison  off, 
The  earth  would  be  no  longer  earth  to  me, 
The  life  out  of  all  life  was  gone  from  me. 
There  are  blind  ways  provided,  the  foredone 
Heart-weary  player  in  this  pageant-world 
Drops  out  by,  letting  the  main  masque  defile 
By  the  conspicuous  portal:  I  am  through — 
Just  through! 

Guen.  Don't  leave  him,  Austin!     Death  is  close. 

Tresh.     Already  Mildred's  face  is  peacefuller. 
I  see  you,  Austin — feel  you:  here's  my  hand, 
Put  yours  in  it — you,  Guendolen,  yours  too! 
You're  lord  and  lady  now — you're  Treshams;  name 
And  fame  are  yours :  you  hold  our  'scutcheon  up. 
Austin,  no  blot  on  it!     You  see  how  blood 
Must  wash  one  blot  away:  the  first  blot  came 
And  the  first  blood  came.     To  the  vain  world's  eye 
All's  gules  again:  no  care  to  the  vain  world, 
From  whence  the  red  was  drawn! 

Aus.  No  blot  shall  come! 

Tresh.     I  said  that:  yet  it  did  come.     Should  it  come, 
Vengeance  is  God's,  not  man's.     Remember  me!  [Dies. 

Guen.  [letting  fall  the  pulseless  arm.}     Ah,  Thorold,  we  can 
but — remember  vou ! 

(1843.) 


350  ROBERT  BROWNING 

IN  A  BALCONY 

Persons. 
NORBERT. 
CONSTANCE. 
THE  QUEEN. 

CONSTANCE  and  NORBERT. 

Norbert.    Now! 

Constance.    Not  now! 

Norbert.  Give  me  them  again,  those  hands: 

Put  them  upon  my  forehead,  how  it  throbs! 
Press  them  before  my  eyes,  the  fire  comes  through! 
You  cruellest,  you  dearest  in  the  world, 
Let  me!     The  Queen  must  grant  whate'er  I  ask — 
How  can  I  gain  you  and  not  ask  the  Queen? 
There  she  stays  waiting  for  me,  here  stand  you; 
Some  time  or  other  this  was  to  be  asked; 
Now  is  the  one  time — what  I  ask,  I  gain : 
Let  me  ask  now,  Love! 

Constance.     Do,  and  ruin  us! 

Norbert.     Let  it  be  now,  Love!     All  my  soul  breaks  forth. 
How  I  do  love  you!     Give  my  love  its  way! 
A  man  can  have  but  one  life  and  one  death, 
One  heaven,  one  hell.     Let  me  fulfil  my  fate — 
Grant  me  my  heaven  now!     Let  me  know  you  mine, 
Prove  you  mine,  write  my  name  upon  your  brow, 
Hold  you  and  have  you,  and  then  die  away, 
If  God  please,  with  completion  in  my  soul! 

Constance.     I  am  not  yours  then?     How  content  this  man! 
I  am  not  his — who  change  into  himself, 
Have  passed  into  his  heart  and  beat  its  beats, 
Who  give  my  hands  to  him,  my  eyes,  my  hair, 
Give  all  that  was  of  me  away  to  him — 
So  well,  that  now,  my  spirit  turned  his  own, 
Takes  part  with  him  against  the  woman  here, 
Bids  him  not  stumble  at  so  mere  a  straw 
As  caring  that  the  world  be  cognisant 
How  he  loves  her  and  how  she  worships  him. 
You  have  this  woman,  not  as  yet  that  world. 
Go  on,  I  bid,  nor  stop  to  care  for  me 
By  saving  what  I  cease  to  care  about, 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  351 

The  courtly  name  and  pride  of  circumstance-j- 
The  name  you'll  pick  up  and  be  cumbered  with 
Just  for  the  poor  parade's  sake,  nothing  more; 
Just  that  the  world  may  slip  from  under  you — 
Just  that  the  world  may  cry,  "So  much  for  him — 
The  man  predestined  to  the  heap  of  crowns: 
There  goes  his  chance  of  winning  one,  at  least!" 

Norbert.    The  world! 

Constance.  You  love  it!    Love  me  quite  as  well, 

And  see  if  I  shall  pray  for  this  in  vain! 
Why  must  you  ponder  what  it  knows  or  thinks? 

Norbert,    You  pray  for — what,  in  vain? 

Constance.  Oh  my  heart's  heart, 

How  I  do  love  you,  Norbert!    That  is  right: 
But  listen,  or  I  take  my  hands  away! 
You  say,  "let  it  be  now":  you  would  go  now 
And  tell  the  Queen,  perhaps  six  steps  from  us, 
You  love  me — so  you  do,  thank  God! 

Norbert.  Thank  God! 

Constance.    Yes,  Norbert, — but  you  fain  would  tell  your 

love, 

And,  what  succeeds  the  telling,  ask  of  her 
My  hand.     Now  take  this  rose  and  look  at  it, 
Listening  to  me.     You  are  the  minister, 
The  Queen's  first  favourite,  nor  without  a  cause. 
To-night  completes  your  wonderful  year's-work 
(This  palace-feast  is  held  to  celebrate) 
Made  memorable  by  her  life's  success, 
The  junction  of  two  crowns,  on  her  sole  head, 
Her  house  had  only  dreamed  of  anciently: 
That  this  mere  dream  is  grown  a  stable  truth, 
To-night's  feast  makes  authentic.     Whose  the  praise? 
Whose  genius,  patience,  energy,  achieved 
What  turned  the  many  heads  and  broke  the  hearts? 
You  are  the  fate,  your  minute's  in  the  heaven. 
Next  comes  the  Queen's  turn.     "Name  your  own  reward!'" 
With  leave  to  clench  the  past,  chain  the  to-come, 
Put  out  an  arm  and  touch  and  take  the  sun 
And  fix  it  ever  full-faced  on  your  earth, 
Possess  yourself  supremely  of  her  life, — 
You  choose  the  single  thing  she  will  not  grant; 
Nay,  very  declaration  of  which  choice 


352  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Will  turn  the  scale  and  neutralise  your  work: 

At  best  she  will  forgive  you,  if  she  can. 

You  think  I'll  let  you  choose — her  cousin's  hand? 

Norbert.     Wait.     First,  do  you  retain  your  old  belief 
The  Queen  is  generous, — nay,  is  just? 

Constance.  There,  there! 

So  men  make  women  love  them,  while  they  know 
No  more  of  women's  hearts  than   .    .    .  look  you  here, 
You  that  are  just  and  generous  beside. 
Make  it  your  own  case!     For  example  now, 
I'll  say — I  let  you  kiss  me,  hold  my  hands — 
Why?  do  you  know  why?     I'll  instruct  you,  then — 
The  kiss,  because  you  have  a  name  at  court ; 
This  hand  and  this,  that  you  may  shut  in  each 
A  jewel,  if  you  please  to  pick  up  such. 
That's  horrible?     Apply  it  to  the  Queen — 
Suppose  I  am  the  Queen  to  whom  you  speak. 
"I  was  a  nameless  man;  you  needed  me: 
Why  did  I  proffer  you  my  aid?  there  stood 
A  certain  pretty  cousin  at  your  side. 
Why  did  I  make  such  common  cause  with  you? 
Access  to  her  had  not  been  easy  else. 
You  give  my  labor  here  abundant  praise? 
'Faith,  labor,  which  she  overlooked,  grew  play. 
How  shall  your  gratitude  discharge  itself? 
Give  me  her  hand!" 

Norbert.  And  still  I  urge  the  same. 

Is  the  Queen  just?  just — generous  or  no! 

Constance.     Yes,  just.     You  love  a  rose:  no  harm  in  that: 
But  was  it  for  the  rose's  sake  or  mine 
You  put  it  in  your  bosom?  mine,  you  said — 
Then,  mine  you  still  must  say  or  else  be  false. 
You  told  the  Queen  you  served  her  for  herself; 
If  so,  to  serve  her  was  to  serve  yourself, 
She  thinks,  for  all  your  unbelieving  face! 
I  know  her.     In  the  hall,  six  steps  from  us, 
One  sees  the  twenty  pictures:  there's  a  life 
Better  than  life,  and  yet  no  life  at  all. 
Conceive  her  born  in  such  a  magic  dome, 
Pictures  all  round  her!  why,  she  sees  the  world, 
Can  recognise  its  given  things  and  facts, 
The  fight  of  giants  or  the  feast  of  gods, 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  353 

Sages  in  senate,  beauties  at  the  bath, 

Chaces  and  battles,  the  whole  earth's  display, 

Landscape  and  sea-piece,  down  to  flowers  and  fruit — 

And  who  shall  question  that  she  knows  them  all, 

In  better  semblance  than  the  things  outside? 

Yet  bring  into  the  silent  gallery 

Some  live  thing  to  contrast  in  breath  and  blood, 

Some  lion,  with  the  painted  lion  there — 

You  think  she'll  understand  composedly? 

— Say,  "That's  his  fellow  in  the  hunting-piece 

Yonder,  I've  turned  to  praise  a  hundred  times?" 

Not  so.     Her  knowledge  of  our  actual  earth, 

Its  hopes  and  fears,  concerns  and  sympathies, 

Must  be  too  far,  too  mediate,  too  unreal. 

The  real  exists  for  us  outside,  not  her: 

How  should  it,  with  that  life  in  these  four  walls, 

That  father  and  that  mother,  first  to  last 

No  father  and  no  mother — friends,  a  heap, 

Lovers,  no  lack — a  husband  in  due  time, 

And  every  one  of  them  alike  a  lie! 

Things  painted  by  a  Rubens1  out  of  nought 

Into  what  kindness,  friendship,  love  should  be; 

All  better,  all  more  grandiose  than  the  life, 

Only  no  life;  mere  cloth  and  surface-paint, 

You  feel,  while  you  admire.     How  should  she  feel? 

Yet  now  that  she  has  stood  thus  fifty  years 

The  sole  spectator  in  that  gallery, 

You  think  to  bring  this  warm  real  struggling  love 

In  to  her  of  a  sudden,  and  suppose 

She'll  keep  her  state  untroubled?     Here's  the  truth — 

She'll  apprehend  truth's  value  at  a  glance, 

Prefer  it  to  the  pictured  loyalty? 

You  only  have  to  say  "So  men  are  made, 

For  this  they  act;  the  thing  has  many  names, 

But  this  the  right  one:  and  now,  Queen,  be  just  I" 

Your  life  slips  back;  you  lose  her  at  the  word: 

You  do  not  even  for  amends  gain  me. 

He  will  not  understand;  oh.  Norbert,  Norbert, 

Do  you  not  understand? 

Norbert.  The  Queen's  tho  Queen, 

1  Greatest  of  Flemish  painters  (1577-1040). 


354  ROBERT  BROWNING 

I  am  myself — no  picture,  but  alive 

In  every  nerve  and  every  muscle,  here 

At  the  palace-window  o'er  the  people's  street, 

As  she  in  the  gallery  where  the  pictures  glow: 

The  good  of  life  is  precious  to  us  both. 

She  cannot  love;  what  do  I  want  with  rule? 

When  first  I  saw  your  face  a  year  ago 

I  knew  my  life's  good,  my  soul  heard  one  voice — 

"The  woman  yonder,  there's  no  use  of  life 

But  just  to  obtain  her!  heap  earth's  woes  in  one 

And  bear  them — make  a  pile  of  all  earth's  joys 

And  spurn  them,  as  they  help  or  help  not  this 

Only,  obtain  her!"     How  was  it  to  be? 

I  found  you  were  the  cousin  of  the  Queen; 

I  must  then  serve  the  Queen  to  get  to  you. 

No  other  way.     Suppose  there  had  been  one, 

And  I,  by  saying  prayers  to  some  white  star 

With  promise  of  my  body  and  my  soul, 

Might  gain  you, — should  I  pray  the  star  or  no? 

Instead,  there  was  the  Queen  to  serve!    I  served, 

Helped,  did  what  other  servants  failed  to  do. 

Neither  she  sought  nor  I  declared  my  end. 

Her  good  is  hers,  my  recompense  be  mine, — 

I  therefore  name  you  as  that  recompense. 

She  dreamed  that  such  a  thing  could  never  be? 

Let  her  wake  now.     She  thinks  there  was  more  cause 

In  love  of  power,  high  fame,  pure  loyalty? 

Perhaps  she  fancies  men  wear  out  their  lives 

Chasing  such  shades.     Then,  I've  a  fancy  too; 

I  worked  because  I  want  you  with  my  soul: 

I  therefore  ask  your  hand.     Let  it  be  now! 

Constance.     Had  I  not  loved  you  from  the  very  first, 
Were  I  not  yours,  could  we  not  steal  out  thus 
So  wickedly,  so  wildly,  and  so  well, 
You  might  become  impatient.     What 's  conceived 
Of  us  without  here,  by  the  folk  within? 
Where  are  you  now?  immersed  in  cares  of  state — 
Where  am  I  now?  intent  on  festal  robes — 
We  two,  embracing  under  death's  spread  hand! 
What  was  this  thought  for,  what  that  scruple  of  yours 
Which  broke  the  council  up? — to  bring  about 
One  minute's  meeting  in  the  corridor? 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  355 

And  then  the  sudden  sleights,  strange  secrecies, 

Complots  inscrutable,  deep  telegraphs, 

Long-planned  chance-meetings,  hazards  of  a  look, 

"Does  she  know?  does  she  not  know?  saved  or  lost?" 

A  year  of  this  compression's  ecstasy 

All  goes  for  nothing!  you  would  give  this  up 

For  the  old  way,  the  open  way,  the  world's, 

His  way  who  beats,  and  his  who  sells  his  wife! 

What  tempts  you? — their  notorious  happiness 

Makes  you  ashamed  of  ours?    The  best  you'll  gain 

Will  be — the  Queen  grants  all  that  you  require, 

Concedes  the  cousin,  rids  herself  of  you 

And  me  at  once,  and  gives  us  ample  leave 

To  live  like  our  five  hundred  happy  friends. 

The  world  will  show  us  with  officious  hand 

Our  chamber-entry,  and  stand  sentinel 

Where  we  so  oft  have  stolen  across  its  traps! 

Get  the  world's  warrant,  ring  the  falcons'  feet, 

And  make  it  duty  to  be  bold  and  swift, 

Which  long  ago  was  nature.     Have  it  so! 

We  never  hawked  by  rights  till  flung  from  fist? 

Oh,  the  man's  thought!  no  woman's  such  a  fool. 

Norbert.     Yes,  the  man's  thought  and  my  thought,  which 

is  more — 

One  made  to  love  you,  let  the  world  take  note! 
Have  I  done  worthy  work?  be  love's  the  praise, 
Though  hampered  by  restrictions,  barred  against 
By  set  forms,  blinded  by  forced  secrecies! 
Set  free  my  love,  and  see  what  love  can  do 
Shown  in  my  life — what  work  will  spring  from  that! 
The  world  is  used  tt)  have  its  business  done 
On  other  grounds,  find  great  effects  produce 
For  power's  sake,  fame's  sake,  motives  in  men's  mouth. 
So,  good:  but  let  my  low  ground  shame  their  high! 
Truth  is  the  strong  thing.     Let  man's  life  be  true! 
And  love's  the  truth  of  mine.     Time  prove  the  rest! 
I  choose  to  wear  you  stamped  all  over  me, 
Your  name  upon  my  forehead  and  my  breast, 
You,  from  the  sword's  blade  to  the  ribbon's  edge. 
That  men  may  see,  all  over,  you  in  me — 
That  pale  loves  may  die  out  of  their  pretence 
In  face  of  mine,  shames  thrown  on  love  fall  off. 


356  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Permit  this,  Constance!     Love  has  been  so  long 

Subdued  in  me,  eating  me  through  and  through, 

That  now  'tis  all  of  me  and  must  have  way. 

Think  of  my  work,  that  chaos  of  intrigues, 

Those  hopes  and  fears,  surprises  and  delays, 

That  long  endeavour,  earnest,  patient,  slow, 

Trembling  at  last  to  its  assured  result: 

Then  think  of  this  revulsion!     I  resume 

Life  after  death,  (it  is  no  less  than  life, 

After  such  long  unlovely  laboring  days,) 

And  liberate  to  beauty  life's  great  need 

0 '  the  beautiful,  which,  while  it  prompted  work, 

Suppressed  itself  erewhile.     This  eve's  the  time, 

This  eve  intense  with  yon  first  trembling  star 

We  seem  to  pant  and  reach;  scarce  ought  between 

The  earth  that  rises  and  the  heaven  that  bends; 

All  nature  self -abandoned,  every  tree 

Flung  as  it  will,  pursuing  its  own  thoughts 

And  fixed  so,  every  flower  and  every  weed, 

No  pride,  no  shame,  no  victory,  no  defeat; 

All  under  God,  each  measured  by  itself. 

These  statues  round  us  stand  abrupt,  distinct,     _ 

The  strong  in  strength,  the  weak  in  weakness  fixed, 

The  Muse  forever  wedded  to  her  lyre, 

The  Nymph  to  her  fawn,  and  Silence  to  her  rose: 

See  God's  approval  on  his  universe! 

Let  us  do  so — aspire  to  live  as  these 

In  harmony  with  truth,  ourselves  being  true! 

Take  the  first  way,  and  let  the  second  come! 

My  first  is  to  possess  myself  of  you; 

The  music  sets  the  march-step — forward,  then! 

And  there's  the  Queen,  I  go  to  claim  you  of, 

The  world  to  witness,  wonder  and  applaud. 

Our  flower  of  life  breaks  open.     No  delay! 

Constance.     And  so  shall  we  be  ruined,  both  of  us. 
Norbert,  I  know  her  to  the  skin  and  bone : 
You  do  not  know  her,  were  not  born  to  it, 
To  feel  what  she  can  see  or  cannot  see. 
Love,  she  is  generous, — ay,  despite  your  smile, 
Generous  as  you  are:  for,  in  that  thin  frame 
Pain-twisted,  punctured  through  and  through  with  cares, 
There  lived  a  lavish  soul  until  it  starved, 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  357 

Debarred  of  healthy  food.     Look  to  the  soul — 

Pity  that,  stoop  to  that,  ere  you  begin 

(The  true  man's-way)  on  justice  and  your  rights, 

Exactions  and  acquittance  of  the  past! 

Begin  so — see  what  justice  she  will  deal! 

We  women  hate  a  debt  as  men  a  gift. 

Suppose  her  some  poor  keeper  of  a  school 

Whose  business  is  to  sit  through  summer-months 

And  dole  out  children  leave  to  go  and  play, 

Herself  superior  to  such  lightness — she 

In  the  arm-chair's  state  and  pedagogic  pomp  — 

To  the  life,  the  laughter,  sun  and  youth  outside: 

We  wonder  such  a  face  looks  black  on  us? 

I  do  not  bid  you  wake  her  tenderness, 

(That  were  vain  truly — none  is  left  to  wake,) 

But,  let  her  think  her  justice  is  engaged 

To  take  the  shape  of  tenderness,  and  mark 

If  she'll  not  coldly  pay  its  warmest  debt! 

Does  she  love  me,  I  ask  you?  not  a  whit : 

Yet.  thinking  that  her  justice  was  engaged 

To  help  a  kinswoman,  she  took  me  up — 

Did  more  on  that  bare  ground  than  other  loves 

Would  do  on  greater  argument.     For  me, 

I  have  no  equivalent  of  such  cold  kind 

To  pay  her  with,  but  love  alone  to  give 

If  I  give  anything.     I  give  her  love: 

I  feel  I  ought  to  help  her,  and  I  will. 

So,  for  her  sake,  as  yours.  I  tell  3^011  twice 

That  women  hate  a  debt  as  men  a  gift. 

If  I  were  you,  I  could  obtain  this  grace — 

Could  lay  the  whole  I  did  to  love's  account, 

Nor  yet  be  very  false  as  courtiers  go — 

Declaring  my  success  was  recompense; 

It  would  be  so,  in  fact:  what  were  it  else? 

And  then,  once  loose  her  generosity, — - 

Oh,  how  I  see  it!  — then,  were  I  but  you 

To  turn  it,  let  it  seem  to  move  itself, 

And  make  it  offer  what  I  really  take, 

Accepting  just,  in  the  poor  cousin's  hand, 

Her  value  as  the  next  thing  to  the  Queen's — 

Since  none  love  queens  directly,  none  dare  that, 

And  a  thing's  shadow  or  a  name's  mere  echo 


358  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Suffices  those  who  miss  the  name  and  thing! 
You  pick  up  just  a  ribbon  she  has  worn, 
To  keep  in  proof  how  near  her  breath  you  came. 
Say,  I'm  so  near  I  seem  a  piece  of  her — 
Ask  for  me  that  way — (oh,  you  understand,) 
You'd  find  the  same  gift  yielded  with  a  grace, 
Which,  if  you  make  the  least  show  to  extort   .    .    . 
—You'll  see!  and  when  you  have  ruined  both  of  us, 
Dissertate  on  the  Queen's  ingratitude! 

Norbert.    Then,  if  I  turn  it  that  way,  you  consent? 
3Tis  not  my  way;  I  have  more  hope  in  truth: 
Still,  if  you  won't  have  truth — why,  this  indeed, 
Were  scarcely  false,  as  I'd  express  the  sense. 
Will  you  remain  here? 

Constance.  O  best  heart  of  mine, 

How  I  have  loved  you!  then,  you  take  my  way? 
Are  mine  as  you  have  been  her  minister, 
Work  out  my  thought,  give  it  effect  for  me, 
Paint  plain  my  poor  conceit  and  make  it  serve? 
I  owe  that  withered  woman  everything — 
Life,  fortune,  you,  remember!    Take  my  part — 
Help  me  to  pay  her!     Stand  upon  your  rights? 
You,  with  my  rose,  my  hands,  my  heart  on  you? 
Your  rights  are  mine — you  have  no  rights  but  mine. 

Norbert.     Remain  here.     How  you  know  me ! 

Constance.  Ah,  but  still — 

[He  breaks  from  her;  she  remains.     Dance- 
music  from  within. 

Enter  the  QUEEN 

Queen.     Constance?    She  is  here  as  he  said.    Speak  quick! 
Is  it  so?     Is  it  true  or  false?     One  word! 

Constance.     True. 

Queen.     Mercifullest  Mother,  thanks  to  thee! 

Constance.     Madam? 

Queen.  I  love  you,  Constance,  from  my  soul. 

Now  say  once  more,  with  any  words  you  will, 
'Tis  true,  all  true,  as  true  as  that  I  speak. 

Constance.     Why  should  you  doubt  it? 

Queen.  Ah,  why  doubt?  why  doubt? 

Dear,  make  me  see  it!     Do  you  see  it  so? 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  359 

None  see  themselves;  another  sees  them  best. 
You  say  "why  doubt  it?" — you  see  him  and  me. 
It  is  because  the  Mother  has  such  grace 
That  if  we  had  but  faith — wherein  we  fail — 
Whate'er  we  yearn  for  would  be  granted  us; 
Yet  still  we  let  our  whims  prescribe  despair, 
Our  fancies  thwart  and  cramp  our  will  and  power, 
And  while  accepting  life,  abjure  its  use. 
Constance,  I  had  abjured  the  hope  of  love 
And  being  loved  as  truly  as  yon  palm 
The  hope  of  seeing  Egypt  from  that  plot. 

Constance.     Heaven! 

Queen.  But  it  was  so,  Constance,  it  was  so! 

Men  say — or  do  men  say  it?  fancies  say — 
"Stop  here,  your  life  is  set,  you  are  grown  old. 
Too  late — no  love  for  you,  too  late  for  love — 
Leave  love  to  girls.     Be  queen:  let  Constance  love!" 
One  takes  the  hint — half  meets  it  like  a  child, 
Ashamed  at  any  feelings  that  oppose. 
"Oh  love,  true,  never  think  of  love  again! 
I  am  a  queen:  I  rule,  not  love,  forsooth." 
So  it  goes  on;  so  a  face  grows  like  this, 
Hair  like  this  hair,  poor  arms  as  lean  as  these, 
Till, — nay,  it  does  not  end  so,  I  thank  God! 

Constance.     I  cannot  understand — 

Queen.  The  happier  you ! 

Constance,  I  know  not  how  it  is  with  men : 
For  women  (I  am  a  woman  now  like  you) 
There  is  no  good  of  life  but  love — but  love! 
What  else  looks  good,  is  some  shade  flung  from  love; 
Love  gilds  it,  gives  it  worth.     Be  warned  by  me, 
Never  you  cheat  yourself  one  instant!     Love, 
Give  love,  ask  only  love,  and  leave  the  rest! 

0  Constance,  how  I  love  you! 

Constance.  I  love  you. 

Queen.     I  do  believe  that  all  is  come  through  you. 

1  took  you  to  my  heart  to  keep  it  warm 

When  the  last  chance  of  love  seemed  dead  in  me; 
I  thought  your  fresh  youth  warmed  my  withered  heart. 
Oh,  I  am  very  old  now,  am  I  not? 
Not  so!  it  is  true  and  it  shall  be  true! 

Constance.     Tell  it  me:  let  me  judge  if  true  or  false. 


360  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Queen.     Ah,  but  I  fear  you !  you  will  look  at  me 
And  say,  "she's  old,  she's  grown  unlovely  quite 
Who  ne'er  was  beauteous:  men  want  beauty  still." 
Well,  so  I  feared — the  curse!  so  I  felt  sure! 

Constance.     Be  calm.     And  now  you  feel  not  sure,  you  say? 

Queen.    Constance,  he  came, — the  coming  was  not  strange — 
Do  not  I  stand  and  see  men  come  and  go? 
I  turned  a  half-look  from  my  pedestal 
Where  I  grow  marble — "one  young  man  the  more! 
He  will  love  some  one;  that  is  nought  to  me: 
What  would  he  with  my  marble  stateliness?" 
Yet  this  seemed  somewhat  worse  than  heretofore; 
The  man  more  gracious,  youthful,  like  a  god, 
And  I  still  older,  with  less  flesh  to  change — 
We  two  those  dear  extremes  that  long  to  touch. 
It  seemed  still  harder  when  he  first  began 
To  labor  at  those  state-affairs,  absorbed 
The  old  way  for  the  old  end — interest. 
Oh,  to  live  with  a  thousand  beating  hearts 
Around  you,  swift  eyes,  serviceable  hands, 
Professing  they've  no  care  but  for  your  cause, 
Thought  but  to  help  you,  love  but  for  yourself, — 
And  you  the  marble  statue  all  the  time 
They  praise  and  point  at  as  preferred  to  life, 
Yet  leave  for  the  first  breathing  woman's  smile, 
First  dancer's,  gypsy's  or  street  baladine's! 
Why,  how  I  have  ground  my  teeth  to  hear  men's  speech 
Stifled  for  fear  it  should  alarm  my  ear, 
Their  gait  subdued  lest  step  should  startle  me, 
Their  eyes  declined,  such  queendom  to  respect, 
Their  hands  alert,  such  treasure  to  preserve, 
While  not  a  man  of  them  broke  rank  and  spoke, 
Wrote  me  a  vulgar  letter  all  of  love, 
Or  caught  my  hand  and  pressed  it  like  a  hand! 
There  have  been  moments,  if  the  sentinel 
Lowering  his  halbert  to  salute  the  queen, 
Had  flung  it  brutally  and  clasped  my  knees, 
I  would  have  stooped  and  kissed  him  with  my  soul. 

Constance.     Who  could  have  comprehended? 

Queen.  Ay,  who — who? 

Why,  no  one,  Constance,  but  this  one  who  did. 
Not  they,  not  you,  not  I.     Even  now  perhaps 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  361 

It  comes  too  late — would  you  but  tell  the  truth. 

Constance.     I  wait  to  tell  it. 

Queen.  Well,  you  see,  he  came, 

Outfaced  the  others,  did  a  work  this  year 
Exceeds  in  value  all  was  ever  done, 
You  know — it  is  not  I  who  say  it — all 
Say  it.     And  so  (a  second  pang  and  worse) 
I  grew  aware  not  only  of  what  he  did, 
But  why  so  wondrously.     Oh,  never  work 
Like  his  was  done  for  work's  ignoble  sake — 
Souls  need  a  finer  aim  to  light  and  lure! 
I  felt,  I  saw,  he  loved — loved  somebody. 
And  Constance,  my  dear  Constance,  do  you  know, 
I  did  believe  this  while  'twas  you  he  loved. 

Constance.     Me,  madam? 

Queen.  It  did  seem  to  me,  your  face 

Met  him  where'er  he  looked:  and  whom  but  you 
Was  such  a  man  to  love?     It  seemed  to  me, 
You  saw  he  loved  you,  and  approved  his  love, 
And  both  of  you  were  in  intelligence. 
You  could  not  loiter  in  that  garden,  stop 
Into  this  balcony,  but  I  straight  was  stung 
And  forced  to  understand.     It  seemed  so  true, 
So  right,  so  beautiful,  so  like  you  both, 
That  all  this  work  should  have  been  done  by  him 
Not  for  the  vulgar  hope  of  recompense, 
But  that  at  last — suppose,  some  night  like  this — 
Borne  on  to  claim  his  due  reward  of  me, 
He  might  say.  "Give  her  hand  and  pay  me  so." 
And  I  (0  Constance,  you  shall  love  me  now!) 
I  thought,  surmounting  all  the  bitterness, 
— "And  he  shall  have  it.     I  will  make  her  blest, 
My  flower  of  youth,  my  woman's  self  that  was, 
My  happiest  woman's  self  that  might  have  been! 
These  two  shall  have  their  joy  and  leave  me  here." 
Yes — yes ! 

Constance.     Thanks! 

Queen.  And  the  word  was  on  my  lips 

When  he  burst  in  upon  me.     I  looked  to  hear 
A  mere  calm  statement  of  his  just  desire 
For  payment  of  his  labor.     When — 0  Heaven, 
How  can  I  tell  you?  lightning  on  my  eyes 


362  ROBERT  BROWNING 

And  thunder  in  my  ears  proved  that  first  word 
Which  told  'twas  love  of  me,  of  me,  did  all — 
He  loved  me — from  the  first  step  to  the  last, 
Loved  me! 

Constance.    You  hardly  saw,  scarce  heard  him  speak 
Of  love:  what  if  you  should  mistake? 

Queen.  No,  no — 

No  mistake!    Ha,  there  shall  be  no  mistake! 
He  had  not  dared  to  hint  the  love  he  felt — 
You  were  my  reflex — (how  I  understood!) 
He  said  you  were  the  ribbon  I  had  worn, 
He  kissed  my  hand,  he  looked  into  my  eyes, 
And  love,  love  come  at  end  of  every  phrase. 
Love  is  begun;  this  much  is  come  to  pass: 
The  rest  is  easy.    Constance,  I  am  yours! 
I  will  learn,  I  will  place  my  life  on  you, 
Teach  me  but  how  to  keep  what  I  have  won! 
Am  I  so  old?    This  hair  was  early  gray; 
But  joy  ere  now  has  brought  hair  brown  again, 
And  joy  will  bring  the  cheek's  red  back,  I  feel. 
I  could  sing  once  too;  that  was  in  my  youth. 
Still,  when  men  paint  me,  they  declare  me  ...  yes, 
Beautiful — for  the  last  French  painter  did! 
I  know  they  flatter  somewhat;  you  are  frank — 
I  trust  you.     How  I  loved  you  from  the  first! 
Some  queens  would  hardly  seek  a  cousin  out 
And  set  her  by  their  side  to  take  the  eye: 
I  must  have  felt  that  good  would  come  from  you. 
I  am  not  generous — like  him — like  you! 
But  he  is  not  your  lover  after  all : 
It  was  not  you  he  looked  at.     Saw  you  him? 
You  have  not  been  mistaking  words  or  looks? 
He  said  you  were  the  reflex  of  myself. 
And  yet  he  is  not  such  a  paragon 
To  you,  to  younger  women  who  may  choose 
Among  a  thousand  Norberts.     Speak  the  truth! 
You  know  you  never  named  his  name  to  me : 
You  know,  I  cannot  give  him  up — ah  God, 
Not  up  now,  even  to  you! 

Constance.  Then  calm  yourself. 

Queen.     See,  I  am  old — look  here,  you  happy  girl! 
I  will  not  play  the  fool,  deceive — ah,  whom? 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  363 

Tis  all  gone:  put  your  cheek  beside  my  cheek 
And  what  a  contrast  does  the  moon  behold! 
But  then  I  set  my  life  upon  one  chance, 
The  last  chance  and  the  best — am  7  not  left, 
My  soul,  myself?    All  women  love  great  men 
If  young  or  old;  it  is  in  all  the  tales: 
Young  beauties  love  old  poets  who  can  love — 
Why  should  not  he,  the  poems  in  my  soul, 
The  passionate  faith,  the  pride  of  sacrifice, 
Life-long,  death-long?     I  throw  them  at  his  feet. 
Who  cares  to  see  the  fountain's  very  shape, 
Whether  it  be  a  Triton's  or  a  Nymph's 
That  pours  the  foam,  makes  rainbows  all  around? 
You  could  not  praise  indeed  the  empty  conch; 
But  I'll  pour  floods  of  love  and  hide  myself. 
How  I  will  love  him!     Cannot  men  love  love? 
Who  was  a  queen  and  loved  a  poet  once 
Humpbacked,  a  dwarf?  ah,  women  can  do  that! 
Well,  but  men  too;  at  least,  they  tell  you  so. 
They  love  so  many  women  in  their  youth, 
And  even  in  age  they  all  love  whom  they  please; 
And  yet  the  best  of  them  confide  to  friends 
That  'tis  not  beauty  makes  the  lasting  love — 
They  spend  a  day  with  such  and  tire  the  next: 
They  like  soul, — well  then,  they  like  phantasy, 
Novelty  even.     Let  us  confess  the  truth, 
Horrible  though  it  be,  that  prejudice, 
Prescription   .    .    .   curses!  they  will  love  a  queen. 
They  will,  they  do:  and  will  not,  does  not — he? 

Constance.     How  can  he  ?     You  are  wedded:  'tis  a  name 
We  know,  but  still  a  bond.     Your  rank  remains, 
His  rank  remains.     How  can  he,  nobly  souled 
As  you  believe  and  I  incline  to  think, 
Aspire  to  be  your  favourite,  shame  and  all? 

Queen.     Hear  her!     There,  there  now — could  she  love  like 

me? 

What  did  I  say  of  smooth-cheeked  youth  and  grace? 
See  all  it  does  or  could  do!  so  youth  loves! 
Oh,  tell  him,  Constance,  you  could  never  do 
What  I  will — you,  it  was  not  born  in!     I 
Will  drive  these  difficulties  far  and  fast 
As  yonder  mists  curdling  before  the  moon. 


364  ROBERT  BROWNING 

I'll  use  my  light  too,  gloriously  retrieve 
My  youth  from  its  enforced  calamity, 
Dissolve  that  hateful  marriage,  and  be  his, 
His  own  in  the  eyes  alike  of  God  and  man. 

Constance.    You  will  do — dare  do  ...  pause  on  what 
you  say! 

Queen.     Hear  her!    I  thank  you,  sweet,  for  that  surprise. 
You  have  the  fair  face:  for  the  soul,  see  mine! 
I  have  the  strong  soul:  let  me  teach  you,  here. 
I  think  I  have  borne  enough  and  long  enough, 
And  patiently  enough,  the  world  remarks, 
To  have  my  own  way  now,  unblamed  by  all. 
It  does  so  happen  (I  rejoice  for  it) 
This  most  unhoped-for  issue  cuts  the  knot. 
There's  not  a  better  way  of  settling  claims 
Than  this;  God  sends  the  accident  express: 
And  were  it  for  my  subjects'  good,  no  more, 
'Twere  best  thus  ordered.     I  am  thankful  now, 
Mute,  passive,  acquiescent.     I  receive, 
And  bless  God  simply,  or  should  almost  fear 
To  walk  so  smoothly  to  my  ends  at  last. 
Why,  how  I  baffle  obstacles,  spurn  fate! 
How  strong  I  am!     Could  Norbert  see  me  now! 

Constance.     Let  me  consider.     It  is  all  too  strange. 

Queen.     You,  Constance,,  learn  of  me;  do  you,  like  me! 
You  are  young,  beautiful :  my  own,  best  girl, 
You  will  have  many  lovers,  and  love  one — 
Light  hair,  not  hair  like  Norbert's,  to  suit  yours: 
Taller  than  he  is,  since  yourself  are  tall. 
Love  him,  like  me!     Give  all  away  to  him; 
Think  never  of  yourself;  throw  by  your  pride, 
Hope,  fear, — your  own  good  as  you  saw  it  once, 
And  love  him  simply  for  his  very  self. 
Remember,  I  (and  what  am  I  to  you?) 
Would  give  up  all  for  one,  leave  throne,  lose  life, 
Do  all  but  just  unlove  him!     He  loves  me. 

Constance.     He  shall. 

Queen.  You,  step  inside  my  inmost  heart! 

Give  me  your  own  heart:  let  us  have  one  heart! 
I'll  come  to  you  for  counsel;  "this  he  says, 
This  he  does;  what  should  this  amount  to,  pray? 
Beseech  you,  change  it  into  current  coin! 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  365 

Is  that  worth  kisses?    Shall  I  please  him  there?" 
And  then  we'll  speak  in  turn  of  you — what  else? 
Your  love,  according  to  your  beauty's  worth, 
For  you  shall  have  some  noble  love,  all  gold : 
Whom  choose  you?  we  will  get  him  at  your  choice. 
— Constance,  I  leave  you.    Just  a  minute  since, 
I  felt  as  I  must  die  or  be  alone 
Breathing  my  soul  into  an  ear  like  yours : 
Now,  I  would  face  the  world  with  my  new  life, 
Wear  my  new  crown.     I'll  walk  around  the  rooms, 
And  then  come  back  and  tell  you  how  it  feels. 
How  soon  a  smile  of  God  can  change  the  world! 
How  we  are  made  for  happiness — how  work 
Grows  play,  adversity  a  winning  fight! 
True,  I  have  lost  so  many  years:  what  then? 
Many  remain:  God  has  been  very  good. 
You,  stay  here!     'Tis  as  different  from  dreams, 
From  the  mind's  cold  calm  estimate  of  bliss, 
As  these  stone  statues  from  the  flesh  and  blood. 
The  comfort  thou  hast  caused  mankind,  God's  moon! 

[She  goes  out,  leaving  Constance.     Dance-music  from  within. 

NORBERT  enters. 

Norbert.     Well?  we  have  but  one  minute  and  one  word! 

Constance.     I  am  yours,  Norbert! 

Norbert.  Yes,  mine. 

Constance.  Not  till  now! 

You  were  mine.     Now  I  give  myself  to  you. 

Norbert.     Constance? 

Constance.  Your  own!     I  know  the  thriftier  way 

Of  giving — haply,  'tis  the  wiser  way. 
Meaning  to  give  a  treasure,  I  might  dole 
Coin  after  coin  out  (each,  as  that  were  all, 
With  a  new  largess  still  at  each  despair) 
And  force  you  keep  in  sight  the  deed,  preserve 
Exhaustless  till  the  end  my  part  and  yours, 
My  giving  and  your  taking;  both  our  joys 
Dying  together.     Is  it  the  wiser  way? 
I  choose  the  simpler;  I  give  all  at  once. 
Know  what  you  have  to  trust  to,  trade  upon! 


366  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Use  it,  abuse  it, — anything  but  think 

Hereafter,  "Had  I  known  she  loved  me  so, 

And  what  my  means,  I  might  have  thriven  with  it." 

This  is  your  means.     I  give  you  all  myself. 

Norbert.    I  take  you  and  thank  God. 

Constance.  Look  on  through  years! 

We  cannot  kiss,  a  second  day  like  this; 
Else  were  this  earth  no  earth. 

Norbert.  With  this  day's  heat 

We  shall  go  on  through  years  of  cold. 

Constance.  So,  best! 

— I  try  to  see  those  years — I  think  I  see. 
You  walk  quick  and  new  warmth  comes;  you  look  back 
And  lay  all  to  the  first  glow — not  sit  down 
For  ever  brooding  on  a  day  like  this 
While  seeing  embers  whiten  and  love  die. 
Yes,  love  lives  best  in  its  effect;  and  mine, 
Full  in  its  own  life,  yearns  to  live  in  yours. 

Norbert.     Just  so.     I  take  and  know  you  all  at  once. 
Your  soul  is  disengaged  so  easily, 
Your  face  is  there,  I  know  you ;  give  me  time, 
Let  me  be  proud  and  think  you  shall  know  me. 
My  soul  is  slower:  in  a  life  I  roll 
The  minute  out  whereto  you  condense  yours — 
The  whole  slow  circle  round  you  I  must  move, 
To  be  just  you.     I  look  to  a  long  life 
To  decompose  this  minute,  prove  its  worth. 
'Tis  the  sparks '  long  succession  one  by  one 
Shall  show  you,  in  the  end,  what  fire  was  crammed 
In  that  mere  stone  you  struck :  how  could  you  know, 
If  it  lay  ever  unproved  in  your  sight, 
As  now  my  heart  lies?  your  own  warmth  would  hide 
.Its  coldness,  were  it  cold. 

Constance.  But  how  prove,  how? 

Norbert.     Prove  in  my  life,  you  ask? 

Constance.  Quick,  Xorbort — how? 

Norbert.     That's  easy  told.     I  count  life  just  a  stuff 
To  try  the  soul's  strength  on,  educe  the  man. 
Who  keeps  one  end  in  view  makes  all  things  serve. 
As  with  the  body — he  who  hurls  a  lance 
Or  heaps  up  stone  on  stone,  shows  strength  alike: 
So  must  I  seize  and  task  all  means  to  prove 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  367 

And  show  this  soul  of  mine,  you  crown  as  yours, 
And  justify  us  both. 

Constance.  Could  you  write  books, 

Paint  pictures!     One  sits  down  in  poverty 
And  writes  or  paints,  with  pity  for  the  rich. 

Norbert.     And  loves  one's  painting  and  one's  writing,  then, 
And  not  one's  mistress!    All  is  best,  believe, 
And  we  best  as  no  other  than  we  are. 
We  live,  and  they  experiment  on  life — 
Those  poets,  painters,  all  who  stand  aloof 
To  overlook  the  farther.     Let  us  be 
The  thing  they  look  at!     I  might  take  your  face 
And  write  of  it  and  paint  it — to  what  end? 
For  whom?  what  pale  dictatress  in  the  air 
Feeds,  smiling  sadly,  her  fine  ghost-like  form 
With  earth's  real  blood  and  breath,  the  beauteous  life 
She  makes  despised  for  ever?    You  are  mine, 
Made  for  me,  not  for  others  in  the  world, 
Nor  yet  for  that  which  I  should  call  my  art, 
The  cold  calm  power  to  see  how  fair  you  look. 
I  come  to  you;  I  leave  you  not,  to  write 
Or  paint.    You  are,  I  am :  let  Rubens  there 
Paint  us! 

Constance.     So,  best! 

Norbert.  I  understand  your  soul. 

You  live,  and  rightly  sympathise  with  life, 
With  action,  power,  success.     This  way  is  straight; 
And  time  were  short  beside,  to  let  me  change 
The  craft  my  childhood  learnt:  my  craft  shall  serve. 
Men  set  me  here  to  subjugate,  enclose, 
Manure  their  barren  lives,  and  force  thence  fruit 
First  for  themselves,  and  afterward  for  me 
In  the  due  tithe;  the  task  of  some  one  soul, 
Through  ways  of  work  appointed  by  the  world. 
I  am  not  bid  create — men  see  no  star 
Transfiguring  my  brow  to  warrant  that — 
But  find  and  bind  and  bring  to  bear  their  wills. 
So  I  began:  to-night  sees  how  I  e^nd. 
What  if  it  see,  too,  power's  first  outbreak  here 
Amid  the  warmth,  surprise  and  sympathy, 
And  instincts  of  the  heart  that  teach  the  head? 
What  if  the  people  have  discerned  at  length 


368  ROBERT  BROWNING 

The  dawn  of  the  next  nature,  novel  brain 

Whose  will  they  venture  in  the  place  of  theirs, 

Whose  work,  they  trust,  shall  find  them  as  novel  ways 

To  untried  heights  which  yet  he  only  sees? 

I  felt  it  when  you  kissed  me.     See  this  Queen, 

This  people — in  our  phrase,  this  mass  of  men — 

See  how  the  mass  lies  passive  to  my  hand 

Now  that  my  hand  is  plastic,  with  you  by 

To  make  the  muscles  iron !     Oh,  an  end 

Shall  crown  this  issue  as  this  crowns  the  first! 

My  will  be  on  this  people  I  then,  the  strain, 

The  grappling  of  the  potter  with  his  clay, 

The  long  uncertain  struggle, — the  success 

And  consummation  of  the  spirit-work, 

Some  vase  shaped  to  the  curl  of  the  god's  lip, 

While  rounded  fair  for  human  sense  to  see 

The  Graces  in  a  dance  men  recognise 

With  turbulent  applause  and  laughs  of  heart  I 

So  triumph  ever  shall  renew  itself; 

Ever  shall  end  in  efforts  higher  yet, 

Ever  begin  .    .    . 

Constance.  I  ever  helping? 

Norbert.  Thus! 

[As  he  embraces  her,  the  QUEEX  enters. 

Constance.     Hist,  madam!     So  have  I  performed  my  part. 
You  see  your  gratitude's  true  decency, 
Norbert?     A  little  slow  in  seeing  it! 
Begin,  to  end  the  sooner!     What's  a  kiss? 

Norbert.     Constance? 

Constance.  Why,  must  I  teach  it  you  again? 

You  want  a  witness  to  your  dullness,  sir? 
What  was  I  saying  these  ten  minutes  long? 
Then  I  repeat — when  some  young  handsome  man 
Like  you  has  acted  out  a  part  like  yours, 
Is  pleased  to  fall  in  love  with  one  beyond, 
So  very  far  beyond  him,  as  he  says — 
So  hopelessly  in  love  that  but  to  speak 
Would  prove  him  mad, — he  thinks  judiciously, 
And  makes  some  insignificant  good  soul, 
Like  me,  his  friend,  adviser,  confidant, 
And  very  stalking-horse  to  cover  him 
In  following  after  what  he  dares  not  face. 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  369 

When  his  end's  gained — (sir,  do  you  understand?) 
When  she,  he  dares  not  face,  has  loved  him  first, 
— May  I  not  say  so,  madam? — tops  his  hope, 
And  overpasses  so  his  wildest  dream, 
With  glad  consent  of  all,  and  most  of  her 
The  confidant  who  brought  the  same  about — 
Why,  in  the  moment  when  such  joy  explodes, 
I  do  hold  that  the  merest  gentleman 
Will  not  start  rudely  from  the  stalking-horse, 
Dismiss  it  with  a  "There,  enough  of  you!" 
Forget  it,  show  his  back  unmannerly: 
But  like  a  liberal  heart  will  rather  turn 
And  say,  "A  tingling  time  of  hope  was  ours; 
Betwixt  the  fears  and  faltcrings,  we  two  lived 
A  chanceful  time  in  waiting  for  the  prize: 
The  confidant,  the  Constance,  served  not  ill. 
And  though  I  shall  forget  her  in  due  time, 
Her  use  being  answered  now,  as  reason  bids, 
Nay  as  herself  bids  from  her  heart  of  hearts, — 
Still,  she  has  rights,  the  first  thanks  go  to  her, 
The  first  good  praise  goes  to  the  prosperous  tool, 
And  the  first — which  is  the  last — rewarding  kiss." 

Norbert.     Constance,  it  is  a  dream — ah,  see,  you  smile! 

Constance.     So,   now  his  part  being  properly  performed, 
Madam,  I  turn  to  you  and  finish  mine 
As  duly;  I  do  justice  in  my  turn. 
Yes,  madam,  he  has  loved  you — long  and  well; 
He  could  not  hope  to  tell  you  so — 'twas  I 
Who  served  to  prove  your  soul  accessible. 
I  led  his  thoughts  on,  drew  them  to  their  place 
When  they  had  wandered  else  into  despair, 
And  kept  love  constant  toward  its  natural  aim. 
Enough,  my  part  is  played;  you  stoop  half-way 
And  meet  us  royally  and  spare  our  fears : 
'Tis  like  yourself.     He  thanks  you,  so  do  I. 
Take  him — with  my  full  heart !  my  work  is  praised 
By  what  comes  of  it.     Be  you  both  happy,  both! 
Yourself— the  only  one  on  earth  who  can — 
Do  all  for  him,  much  more  than  a  mere  heart 
Which  though  warm  is  not  useful  in  its  warmth 
As  the  silk  vesture  of  a  queen!  fold  that 
Around  him  gently,  tenderly.     For  him — 


370  ROBERT  BROWNING 

For  him, — he  knows  his  own  part! 

Norbert.  Have  you  done? 

I  take  the  jest  at  last.    Should  I  speak. now? 
Was  yours  the  wager,  Constance,  foolish  child; 
Or  did  you  but  accept  it?    Well — at  least 
You  lose  by  it. 

Constance.  Nay,  madam,  'tis  your  turn! 

Restrain  him  still  from  speech  a  little  more, 
And  make  him  happier  as  more  confident! 
Pity  him,  madam,  he  is  timid  yet! 
Mark,  Norbert !    Do  not  shrink  now!    Here  I  yield 
My  whole  right  in  you  to  the  Queen,  observe! 
With  her  go  put  in  practice  the  great  schemes 
You  teem  with,  follow  the  career  else  closed — 
Be  all  you  cannot  be  except  by  her! 
Behold  her! — Madam,  say  for  pity's  sake 
Anything — frankly  say  you  love  him!    Else 
He'll  not  believe  it:  there's  more  earnest  in 
His  fear  than  you  conceive:  I  know  the  man! 

Norbert.    I  know  the  woman  somewhat,  and  confess 
I  thought  she  had  jested  better:  she  begins 
To  overcharge  her  part.     I  gravely  wait 
Your  pleasure,  madam:  where  is  my  reward? 

Queen.    Norbert,  this  wild  girl  (whom  I  recognize 
Scarce  more  than  you  do,  in  her  fancy-fit, 
Eccentric  speech  and  variable  mirth, 
Not  very  wise  perhaps  and  somewhat  bold, 
Yet  suitable,  the  whole  night's  work  being  strange) 
— May  still  be  right :  I  may  do  well  to  speak 
And  make  authentic  what  appears  a  dream 
To  even  myself.     For,  what  she  says,  is  true: 
Yes,  Norbert — what  you  spoke  just  now  of  love, 
Devotion,  stirred  no  novel  sense  in  me, 
But  justified  a  warmth  felt  long  before. 
Yes,  from  the  first — I  loved  you,  I  shall  say: 
Strange!  but  I  do  grow  stronger,  now  'tis  said. 
Your  courage  helps  mine:  you  did  well  to  speak 
To-night,  the  night  that  crowns  your  twelvemonths'  toil: 
But  still  I  had  not  waited  to  discern 
Your  heart  so  long,  believe  me!     From  the  first 
The  source  of  so  much  zeal  was  almost  plain, 
In  absence  even  of  your  own  words  just  now 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  371 

Which  hazarded  the  truth.     Tis  very  strange, 
But  takes  a  happy  ending — in  your  love 
Which  mine  meets:  be  it  so!  as  you  choose  me, 
So  I  choose  you. 

Norbert.  And  worthily  you  choose. 

I  will  not  be  unworthy  your  esteem, 
No,  madam.     I  do  love  you;  I  will  meet 
Your  nature,  now  I  know  it.     This  was  well: 
I  see, — you  dare  and  you  are  justified: 
But  none  had  ventured  such  experiment, 
Less  versed  than  you  in  nobleness  of  heart, 
Less  confident  of  finding  such  in  me. 
I  joy  that  thus  you  test  me  ere  you  grant 
The  dearest  richest  beauteousest  and  best 
Of  women  to  my  arms:  'tis  like  yourself. 
So — back  again  into  my  part's  set  words — 
Devotion  to  the  uttermost  is  yours, 
But  no,  you  cannot,  madam,  even  you, 
Create  in  me  the  love  our  Constance  does. 
Or — something  truer  to  the  tragic  phrase — 
Not  yon  magnolia-bell  superb  with  scent 
Invites  a  certain  insect — that's  myself — 
But  the  small  eye-flower  nearer  to  the  ground. 
I  take  this  lady. 

Constance.  Stay — not  hers,  the  trap — 

Stay,  Norbert — that  mistake  were  worst  of  all! 
He  is  too  cunning,  madam!  it  was  I, 
I,  Norbert,  who   .    .    . 

Norbert.  You,  was  it,  Constance?     Then, 

But  for  the  grace  of  this  divinest  hour 
Which  gives  me  you,  I  might  not  pardon  here! 
I  am  the  Queen's;  she  only  knows  my  brain: 
She  may  experiment  upon  my  heart 
And  I  instruct  her  too  by  the  result. 
But  you,  sweet,  you  who  know  me,  who  so  long 
Have  told  my  heart-beats  over,  held  my  life 
In  those  white  hands  of  yours, — it  is  not  well! 

Constance.     Tush!  I  have  said  it,  did  I  not  say  it  all? 
The  life,  for  her — the  heart-beats,  for  her  sake! 

Norbert.     Enough!  my  cheek  rgows  red,  I  think.     Your 
test? 


372  ROBERT  BROWNING 

There's  not  the  meanest  woman  in  the  world, 
Not  she  I  least  could  love  in  all  the  world, 
Whom,  did  she  love  me,  had  love  proved  itself, 
I  dare  insult  as  you  insult  me  now. 
Constance,  I  could  say,  if  it  must  be  said, 
"Take  back  the  soul  you  offer,  I  keep  mine!" 
But — "Take  the  soul  still  quivering  on  your  hand, 
The  soul  so  offered,  which  I  cannot  use, 
And,  please  you,  give  it  to  some  playful  friend, 
For — what's  the  trifle  he  requites  me  with?" 
I,  tempt  a  woman,  to  amuse  a  man, 
That  two  may  mock  her  heart  if  it  succumb? 
No:  fearing  God  and  standing  'neath  his  heaven, 
I  would  not  dare  insult  a  woman  so, 
Were  she  the  meanest  woman  in  the  world, 
And  he,  I  cared  to  please,  ten  emperors! 

Constance.     Norbert! 

Norbert.  I  love  once  as  I  live  but  once. 

What  case  is  this  to  think  or  talk  about? 
I  love  you.     Would  it  mend  the  case  at  all 
If  such  a  step  as  this  killed  love  in  me? 
Your  part  were  done :  account  to  God  for  it !  j 
But  mine— could  murdered  love  get  up  again, 
And  kneel  to  whom  you  pleased  to  designate, 
And  make  you  mirth?     It  is  too  horrible. 
You  did  not  know  this,  Constance?  now  you  know 
That  body  and  soul  have  each  one  life,  but  one: 
And  here's  my  love,  here,  living,  at  your  feet. 

Constance.     See  the  Queen!     Norbert — this  one  more  last 

word — 

If  thus  you  have  taken  jest  for  earnest — thus 
Loved  me  in  earnest   .    .    . 

Norbert.  Ah,  no  jest  holds  here! 

Where  is  the  laughter  in  which  jests  break  up, 
And  what  this  horror  that  grows  palpable? 
Madam — why  grasp  you  thus  the  balcony? 
Have  I  done  ill?     Have  I  not  spoken  truth? 
How  could  I  other?     Was  it  not  your  test, 
To  try  me,  what  my  love  for  Constance  meant? 
Madam,  your  royal  soul  itself  approves, 
The  first,  that  I  should  choose  thus!  so  one  takes 
A  beggar, — asks  him,  what  would  buy  his  child? 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS  373 

And  then  approves  the  expected  laugh  of  scorn 
Returned  as  something  noble  from  the  rags. 
Speak,  Constance,  I'm  the  beggar!     Ha,  what's  this? 
You  two  glare  each  at  each  like  panthers  now. 
Constance,  the  world  fades;  only  you  stand  there! 
You  did  not,  in  to-night's  wild  whirl  of  things, 
Sell  me — your  soul  of  souls  for  any  price? 
No — no — -'tis  easy  to  believe  in  you! 
Was  it  your  love's  mad  trial  to  o'ertop 
Mine  by  this  vain  self-sacrifice?  well,  still — 
Though  I  might  curse,  I  love  you.     I  am  love 
And  cannot  change:  love's  self  is  at  your  feet. 

[The  QUEEN  goes  out. 

Constance.     Feel  my  heart;  let  it  die  against  your  own! 

Norbert.     Against  my  own.     Explain  not;  let  this  be! 
This  is  life's  height. 

Constance.  Yours,  Yours,  Yours! 

Norbert.  You  and  I — 

Why  care  by  what  meanders  we  are  here 
I'  the  centre  of  the  labyrinth?     Men  have  died 
Trying  to  find  this  place  ,  which  we  have  found. 

Constance.     Found,  found! 

Norbert.  Sweet,  never  fear  what  she  can  do! 

We  are  past  harm  now. 

Constance.  On  the  breast  of  God. 

I  thought  of  men — as  if  you  were  a  man. 
Tempting  him  with  a  crown! 

Norbert.  This  must  end  here: 

It  is  too  perfect. 

Constance.  There's  the  music  stopped. 

What  measured  heavy  tread?     It  is  one  blaze 
About  me  and  within  me. 

Norbert.  Oh,  some  death 

Will  run  its  sudden  finger  round  this  spark 
And  sever  us  from  the  rest! 

Constance.  And  so  do  well. 

Now  the  doors  open. 

Norbert.  'Tis  the  guard  comes. 

Constance.  Kiss! 

(1855.) 


Each  volume  edited  with  an  introduction  by  a  leading 
American  authority 


This  series  is  composed  of  such  works  as  are  conspicuous  in  the 
province  of  literature  for  their  enduring  influence.  Every  volume 
is  recognized  as  essential  to  a  liberal  education  and  will  tend  to  in- 
fuse a  love  for  true  literature  and  an  appreciation  of  the  qualities 
which  cause  it  to  endure. 


A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD  AND 

MERRIMAC  RIVERS 
BY  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

With  an  Introduction  by 
ODELL  SHEPARD 

Professor  of  English  at  Trinity  College 

"...  Here  was  a  man  who  stood  with  his  head  in  the  clcuds, 
perhaps,  but  with  his  feet  firmly  planted  on  rubble  and  grit.  He 
was  true  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home.  Thoreau's 
eminently  practical  thought  was  really  concerned,  in  the  last  anal- 
ysis with  definite  human  problems.  The  major  question  how  to  live 
was  at  the  end  of  all  his  vistas." 

EMERSON'S  ESSAYS 

Selected  and  edited,  with  an  Introduction,  by 
ARTHUR  HOBSON  QUINN 

Professor  of  English  and  Dean  of  the  College  University  of 
Pennsylvania 

"Among  the  shifting  values  in  our  literary  history,  Emerson  stands 
secure.  As  a  people  we  are  rather  prone  to  underestimate  our  native 
writers  in  relation  to  English  and  continental  authors,  but  even 
among  those  who  have  been  content  to  treat  our  literature  as  a  by- 
product of  British  letters,  Emjrson's  significance  has  become  only 
more  apparent  with  time." 


THE  MODERN  STUDENTS  LIBRARY 

THE  ESSAYS  OF 
ADDISON  AND  STEELE 

Selected  and  edited  by 
WILL  D.  HOWE 

Professor  of  English  at  Indiana  University 

With  the  writings  of  these  two  remarkable  essayists  modern  prose 
began.  It  is  not  merely  that  their  style  even  to-day,  after  two  cen- 
turies, commands  attention,  it  is  equally  noteworthy  that  these 
men  were  among  the  first  to  show  the  possibilities  of  our  language 
in  developing  a  reading  public. 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  AND 
JONATHAN  EDWARDS 

With  an  Introduction  by 
CARL  VAN  DOREN 

Franklin  and  Edwards  often  sharply  contrasted  in  thought  are, 
however,  in  the  main,  complimentary  to  each  other.  In  religion, 
Franklin  was  the  utilitarian,  Edwards  the  mystic.  Franklin  was 
more  interested  in  practical  morality  than  in  revelation;  Edwards 
sought  a  spiritual  exaltation  in  religious  ecstasy.  In  science  Frank- 
lin was  the  practical  experimenter,  Edwards  the  detached  observer, 
the  theoretical  investigator  of  causes. 

THE 
HEART  OF  MIDLOTHIAN 

BY  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

With  an  Introduction  by 
WILLIAM  P.  TRENT 

Professor  of  English  at  Columbia  University 

Universally  admitted  one  of  the  world's  greatest  story-tellers, 
Scott  himself  considered  "The  Heart  of  Midlothian"  his  master- 
piece, and  it  has  been  accepted  as  such  by  most  of  his  admirers. 


THE  MODERN  STUDENTS  LIBRARY 

THE   ORDEAL  OF 
RICHARD  FEVER'EL 

BY  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

With  an  Introduction  by 
FRANK  W.  CHANDLER 

Professor  of  English  at  the  University  of  Cincinnati 

"The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel,"  published  in  1859,  was  Mere- 
dith's first  modern  novel  and  probably  his  best.  Certainly  it  was, 
and  has  remained,  the  most  generally  popular  of  all  this  author's 
books  and  among  the  works  of  its  type  it  stands  pre-eminent.  The 
story  embodies  in  the  most  beautiful  form  the  idea  that  in  life  the 
whole  truth  and  nothing  but  the  truth  is  best. 

MEREDITH'S 
ESSAY  ON  COMEDY 

With  an  Introduction,  Notes,  and  Biographical  Sketch  by 
LANE  COOPER 

Professor  of  English  at  Cornell  University 

"Good  comedies,"  Meredith  tells  us,  "are  such  rare  productions 
that,  notwithstanding  the  wealth  of  our  literature  in  the  comic 
element,  it  would  not  occupy  us  long  to  run  over  the  English  list." 

The  "Essay  on  Comedy"  is  in  a  peculiarly  intimate  way  the  ex- 
position of  Meredith's  attitude  toward  life  and  art.  It  helps  us  to 
understand  more  adequately  the  subtle  delicacies  of  his  novels. 

CRITICAL  ESSAYS   OF   THE 
NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

Selected  and  edited,  with  an  Introduction,  by 
RAYMOND  M.  ALDEN 

Professor  of  English  at  Leland  Stanford  University 

The  essays  in  this  volume  include  those  of  Wordsworth,  Copleston, 
Jeffrey,  Scott,  Coleridge,  Lockhart,  Lamb,  Hazlitt,  Byron,  Shelley, 
Newman,  DeQuinccy,  Macaulay,  Wilson,  and  Hunt. 


THE  MODERN  STUDENTS  LIBRARY 

ENGLISH  POETS  OF  THE 
EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

Selected  and  Edited  by 
ERNEST  BERNBAUM 

Professor  of  English  at  the  University  of  Illinois 

The  great  age  of  the  eighteenth  century  is,  more  than  any  other, 
perhaps,  mirrored  in  its  poetry,  and  this  anthology  reveals  its  man- 
ners and  ideals. 

While  the  text  of  the  various  poems  is  authentic,  it  is  not  bur- 
dened with  scholastic  editing  and  marginal  comment.  The  collec- 
tion and  its  form  is  one  which  satisfies  in  an  unusual  way  the  in- 
terest of  the  general  reader  as  well  as  that  of  the  specialist. 

PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS 
BY  JOHN  BUNYAN 

With  an  Introduction  and  Notes  by 
DR.  S.  M.  CROTHERS 

This  book  is  one  of  the  most  vivid  and  entertaining  in  the  English 
language,  one  that  has  been  read  more  than  any  other  in  our  lan- 
guage, except  the  Bible. 

PRIDE  AND  PREJUDICE 
BY  JANE  AUSTEN 

With  an  Introduction  by 
WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS 

To  have  this  masterpiece  of  realistic  literature  introduced  by  so 
eminent  a  critic  as  William  Dean  Howells  is,  in  itself,  an  event  in 
the  literary  world.  We  cannot  better  comment  upon  the  edition 
than  by  quoting  from  Mr.  Howells' s  introduction: 

He  says:  "When  I  came  to  read  the  book  the  tenth  or  fifteenth 
time  for  the  purposes  of  this  introduction,  I  found  it  as  fresh  as  when 
I  read  it  first  in  1889,  after  long  shying  off  from  it." 


THE  MODERN  STUDENTS  LIBRARY 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY  LETTERS 

Selected  and  edited  by 
BYHOX  JOHNSON  REES 

Professor  of  English  at  Williams  College 

Contains  letters  from  Blake,  Wordsworth,  Smith,  Southey,  Lamb, 
Irving,  Keats,  Emerson,  Lincoln,  Thackeray,  Huxley,  Meredith, 
"Lewis  Carroll,"  Phillips  Brooks,  Sidney  Lanier,  and  Stevenson. 

PAST  AND  PRESENT 

BY  THOMAS  CARLYLE 

With  an  Introduction  by 
EDWIN  W.  MIMS 

Professor  of  English  at  Vanderbilt  University 

"Past  and  Present,"  written  in  1843,  when  the  industrial  revolu- 
tions had  just  taken  place  in  England  and  when  democracy  and 
freedom  were  the  watchwords  of  liberals  and  progressives,  reads  like 
a  contemporary  volume  on  industrial  and  social  problems. 

BOSWELL'S  LIFE  OF  JOHNSON 

Abridged  and  edited,  with  an  Introduction  and  Notes,  by 
CHARLES  G.  OSGOOD 

Professor  of  English  at  Princeton  University 

Seldom  has  an  abridgment  been  made  with  as  great  skill  in  omit- 
ting nothing  vital  and  keeping  proper  proportions  as  this  edition  by 
Professor  Osgood. 

AMERICAN  BALLADS  AND  SONGS 

Collected  and  edited  by 
LOUISE  POUND 

Professor  of  English,  University  of  Nebraska 

An  anthology  intended  to  present  to  lovers  of  traditional  songs  such 
selections  as  illustrate  the  main  classics  and  types  having  currency  in 
English-speaking  North  America.  It  includes  a  number  of  imported 
ballads  and  songs,  Western  songs,  dialogue  and  nursery  songs,  etc. 


THE  MODERN  STUDENTS  LIBRARY 


BACON'S  ESSAYS 

Selected,  with  an  Introduction  and  Notes,  by 
MARY  AUGUSTA  SCOTT 

Late  Professor  of  English  Literature  at  Smith  College 

These  essays,  the  distilled  wisdom  of  a  great  observer  upon  the 
affairs  of  common  life,  are  of  endless  interest  and  profit.  The  more 
one  reads  them  the  more  remarkable  seem  their  compactness  and 
their  vitality. 

ADAM  BEDE 
BY  GEORGE  ELIOT 

With  an  Introduction  by 
LAURA  J.  WYLIE 

Professor  of  English  at  Vassar  College 

With  the  publication  of  "Adam  Bede"  in  1859,  it  was  evident 
both  to  England  and  America  that  a  great  novelist  had  appeared. 
"Adam  Bede"  is  the  most  natural  of  George  Eliot's  books,  simple 
in  problem,  direct  in  action,  with  the  freshness  and  strength  of  the 
Derbyshire  landscape  and  character  and  speech  in  its  pages. 


THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK 
BY  ROBERT  BROWNING 

With  an  Introduction  by 
FREDERICK  MORGAN  PADELFORD 

Professor  of  English  at  Washington  University 

'  'The  Ring  and  the  Book,'  "  says  Dr.  Padelford  in  his  introduc- 
tion, "is  Browning's  supreme  literary  achievement.  It  was  written 
after  the  poet  had  attained  complete  mastery  of  his  very  individual 
style;  it  absorbed  his  creative  activity  for  a  prolonged  period;  and  it 
issued  with  the  stamp  of  his  characteristic  genius  on  every  page." 


THE  MODERN  STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON'S 

ESSAYS 

With  an  Introduction  by 
WILLIAM  LYON  PHELPS 

Professor  of  English  at  Yale  University 

This  volume  includes  not  only  essays  in  formal  literary  criticism, 
but  also  of  personal  monologue  and  gossip,  as  well  as  philosophical 
essays  on  the  greatest  themes  that  can  occupy  the  mind  of  man.  All 
reveal  the  complex,  whimsical,  humorous,  romantic,  imaginative, 
puritanical  personality  now  known  evervwhere  by  the  formula 
R.  L.  S. 

PENDENNIS 
BY  THACKERAY 

With  an  Introduction  by 
ROBERT  MORSS  LOVETT 

Professor  of  English  at  the  University  of  Chicago 

"Pendennis"  stands  as  a  great  representative  of  biographical 
fiction  and  reflects  more  of  the  details  of  Thackeray's  life  than  all 
his  other  writings.  Of  its  kind  there  is  probably  no  more  interesting 
book  in  our  literature. 

THE 
RETURN  OF  THE  NATIVE 

BY  THOMAS  HARDY 

With  an  Introduction  and  Notes  by 
JOHN  W.  CUXLIFFE 

Professor  of  English  at  Columbia  University 

"The  Return  of  the  Native"  is  probably  Thomas  Hardy's  great 
tragic  masterpiece.  It  carries  to  the  highest  perfection  the  rare 
genius  of  the  finished  writer.  It  presents  in  the  most  remarkable 
way  Hardy's  interpretation  of  nature  in  which  there  is  a  perfect 
unison  between  the  physical  world  and  the  human  character. 


THE  MODERN  STUDENTS  LIBRARY 

SELECTIONS  FROM 
"THE  FEDERALIST" 

Edited  with  an  Introduction  by 
JOHN  SPENCER  BASSETT 

Professor  of  History  in  Smith  College 

A  careful  and  discriminating  selection  of  the  "Essays  written  vi 
favor  of  the  new  constitution,  as  agreed  upon  by  the  federal  con- 
vention, September  17,  1787." 

HISTORICAL  ESSAYS 
BY  LORD  MACAULAY 

Selected  with  an  Introduction  by 
CHARLES  DOWNER  HAZEN 

Professor  of  History  at  Columbia  University 

A  group  of  the  better-known  historical  essays  which  includes  "John 
Hampden,"  "William  Pitt,"  "The  Earl  of  Chatham,"  "Lord  Clive," 
"Warren  Hastings,"  "Machiavelli,"  and  "Frederick  the  Great." 

SARTOR  RESARTUS 

BY  THOMAS  CARLYLE 

Edited  with  an  Introduction  by 
ASHLEY  THORNDIKE 

Professor  of  English  at  Columbia  University 

This  ''Nonsense  on  Clothes,"  as  Carlyle  referred  to  it  in  one  entry 
of  his  journal,  reaches  into  all  the  human  realm  and  is  perhaps  the 
greatest  philosophical  expression  of  Carlyle's  genius.  Surely  there 
is  a  power  of  pure  thought  which  he  has  put  into  the  mind  of  Pro- 
fessor Tempelsdroch  and  a  charm  of  words  which  he  has  given  him 
to  speak  which  he  has  nowhere  surpassed. 

A  glossary  in  this  edition  will  be  of  invaluable  service  to  the 
student. 


THE  MODERN  STUDENTS  LIBRARY 

EVAN  HARRINGTON 
BY  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

With  an  Introduction  by 
GEORGE  G.  REYNOLDS 

Professor  of  English  Literature,  University  of  Colorado 

Evan  Harrington,  one  of  the  greatest  demonstrations  of  George 
Meredith's  genius,  is  an  ironic  comment  on  English  society  and  man- 
ners in  the  latter  part  of  the  last  century,  done  with  amazing  pene- 
tration and  the  best  of  his  humor.  In  the  large,  it  reflects  the  strug- 
gle between  spiritual  and  moral  ideals  which  was  constantly  going  on 
in  Meredith's  mind  and  which  ends  in  the  triumph  of  the  spirit  of 
sacrifice. 

THE  MASTER  OF  BALLANTRAE 

BY  ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON 

With  an  Introduction  by 
H.  S.  CANBY 

Formerly  Professor  of  English  Literature  at  Yale  University,  and 
present  editor  of  the  New  York  Evening  Post  Literary  Review 

Here  is  one  of  the  most  absorbing  of  Stevenson's  romances,  full  of 
the  spice  of  adventure  and  exciting  incident,  the  thrill  of  danger  and 
the  chill  of  fear;  it  is,  beside,  a  powerful  and  subtle  study  of  Scotch 
character  of  different  types,  and  brings  into  being  one  of  the  most 
amazing  of  all  the  dramatis  personae  of  romantic  fiction. 

POEMS  AND  PLAYS 
BY  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Selected  with  an  Introduction  and  Notes  by 
HEWLETTE  ELWELL  JOYCE 

Assistant  Professor  of  English  in  Dartmouth  College 

A  volume  intended  for  the  student  or  less-advanced  reader  of 
Browning  who  does  not  require  a  complete  edition.  The  introduction 
suggests  an  approach  to  Browning,  points  out  such  difficulties  as  often 
perplex  one  who  reads  Browning  for  the  first  time,  and  states  simply 
a  few  of  the  poet's  fundamental  ideas. 


THE  MODERN  STUDENTS  LIBRARY 

RUSKIN'S 
SELECTIONS  AND  ESSAYS 

With  an  Introduction  by 
FREDERICK  WILLIAM  ROE 

Assistant  Professor  of  English  at  University  of  Wisconsin 

"Ruskin,"  said  John  Stuart  Mill,  "was  one  of  the  few  men  in 
Europe  who  seemed  to  draw  what  he  said  from  a  source  within  him- 
self." Carlyle  delighted  in  the  "fierce  lightning  bolts"  that  Ruskin 
was  "copiously  and  desperately  pouring  into  the  black  world  of 
anarchy  all  around  him." 

The  present  volume,  by  its  wide  selection  from  Ruskin's  writings, 
affords  an  unusual  insight  into  this  remarkable  man's  interests  and 
character. 

THE   SCARLET  LETTER 

BY  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

With  an  Introduction  by 
STUART  P.  SHERMAN 

Professor  of  English  at  University  of  Illinois 

'  'The  Scarlet  Letter'  appears  to  be  as  safe  from  competitors 
as  'Pilgrim's  Progress'  or  'Robinson  Crusoe.'  It  is  recognized  as 
the  classical  treatment  of  its  particular  theme.  Its  symbols  and 
scenes  of  guilt  and  penitence — the  red  letter  on  the  breast  of  Hester 
Prynne,  Arthur  Dimmesdale  on  the  scaffold — have  fixed  themselves 
in  the  memory  of  men  like  the  figu-e  of  Crusoe  bending  over  the 
footprints  in  the  sand,  and  have  become  a  part  of  the  common  stock 
of  images  like  Christian  facing  the  lions  in  the  way. 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


Date  Due 


PRINTED   IN    U.S. 


CAT.    NO.    24    161 


